The penis, perhaps, in its most 
potent, primal state, might be one 
of the biggest (or maybe not so big 
…) mysteries unknown to man. At 
the sacral site of this sexual organ 
is an enormous world of imagina-
tion, pro-creation and pleasure. 
Well-endowed with a complex nar-
rative structure, relentlessly rising 
and falling, climaxing and relax-
ing exists this embodied enigma, 
eluding human culture since the 
dawn of time as seen in centuries of 
ancient imagery, symbolic myths, 
rituals, rites, stories and tales. Deep 
symbolic resonance can be attribut-
ed to every inch of our bodies. Our 
penchant for materialism and mor-
alism prevents us from seeing the 
artistic expressiveness and figura-
tive meaning behind the body, and 
thus our very being. 
The phallus — or what Jungian 
psychotherapist Thomas Moore 
refers to as, “the penis mytholo-
gized and fantasized” — without 
fail serves as a symbol for the pure 
cosmic, creative energy inside each 
and every one of us — whether we 
possess the part or not. As Moore 
maintains, “The phallus is not an 
image of the male ego; it is a rep-
resentation of earth’s potency and 
life’s capacity for creativity and 
pleasure.” The metaphorical, meta-
physics of the phallus encourages us 
all to know intimately the ups and 
downs of arousal, the comedy and 
drama of our life story.
Our sexual energy is our cre-
ative energy, our embodied capac-
ity to create. The poetics of the 
penis that the phallus portrays is 
displayed through the building of 
tension at any instance, the pulsat-
ing and throbbing energy in motion 
on the path towards a culminat-

ing, momentous peak, only to be 
brought back roaming wayward 
in the valleys. As the mainstay of 
masculinity, to know, to care and to 
cultivate one’s own phallus is a task 
of epic proportions commanding an 
ardent control over one’s somatic 
sensations, mental facilities, atten-
tion, spiritual willpower and ego.
It would only make sense, then, 
that to know the phallus of another 
man, as a man, is not a rejection but 
an embrace of one’s own masculine 
nature. Despite the antagonistic 
assertions of (male) homo-sexuality 
and Queer manhood being devoid 
of masculinity, or a myriad of other 
pathologizing 
misinterpretations, 
to be gay and a guy is to be in godly 
amalgamation with all aspects of 
our human nature. It is to not only 
caress completely the archetypal 
masculine, archetypal feminine, 
and 
archetypal 
Androgyne 
as 
Jungian psychotherapist Robert 
H. Hopcke describes, but to deeply 
explore the polarities within one’s 
own self through the meeting of an 
archetypal double.
As Queer men, we recognize our 
Self in an other through a union 
of sames, thus claiming in close 
proximity the bountiful riches 
of eros and intimacy by explor-
ing the varieties of our mascu-
line nature. This is not to say that 
Queer manhood, nor the phallus, 
is only representative of masculin-
ity in itself. As Hopcke reminds us, 
Queer manhood remains in touch 
with the archetypal feminine and 
archetypal Androgyne as well. 
The camp humor, the colorful ver-
naculars, critical consideration for 
emotions (and thus the energetic 
aspects of things) and appearances 
of homo-sexual males are among 
the many ways Queer men com-
bine the all-encompassing facets of 
our existence. While it does bear 
some questioning whether these 

intrinsic traits or qualities persist-
ing in re-action to patriarchal sys-
tems of oppression, it is clear that 
Queerness entails a kind of whole-
ness, a coming together of essences 
through coming out. 
Sexual orientation is an intricate 
archetypal phenomenon speaking 
as Hopcke puts forth to the “inde-
scribable multiplicity inherent in 
each 
individual.” 
Sociocultural 
conditioning has obfuscated our 
understanding of sexuality. Our 
ahistorical conceptions of ana-
tomical gender, race, ethnicity and 
socioeconomic class have led us to 
believe our identities as broadly con-
strued have always been considered 
as such. In reality, these constructs, 
including that of heterosexuality 
and homosexuality are relatively 
recent inventions imposed by the 
ruling class of capital over time. As 
American sexologist Alfred Kin-
sey asserts, “Only the human mind 
invented categories and tried to 
force facts into separated pigeon-
holes. The living world is a contin-
uum.”
Should we recall that our biology 
does not beget our erotic desires, 
that beyond the mechanisms of 
mass programming, most people 
are what Kinsey calls “a mixture of 
impulses if not practices,” and that 
there are many mystical, primor-
dial forces at play in every instance 
of attraction … then maybe we 
wouldn’t be so straight-up stuck in 
the nescience of normativity.
The 
illusory 
lines 
between 
homo-sociality, 
homo-eroticism, 
and homo-sexuality are far more 
blurred than many would like to 
believe. As philosophy scholar Jeff 
Casey puts forth, “Paradoxically, 
the embodied desire for heteronor-
mativity depends upon homosocial 
relations that in turn often manifest 
homoerotic and even homosexual 
desires and behaviors.” In other 

words, the gendered segregation 
of our modern society in attempts 
to ideologically socialize and con-
dition us into patriarchal modes 
of relation have paved the way for 
same-sex spaces, which ironically 
lend themselves to engendering 
Queerness. 
English 
theologian 
Graham Ward asserts that “the 
relations between responsive bod-
ies become increasingly eroti-
cized through proximity.” Ward 
goes further to say that aside from 
touch, there is a tactile nature to 
simply seeing, as certain looks or 
exchanges from others enact mysti-
fying sensory-affective experiences 
within ourselves. This is to say, 
Queerness can be conceived in the 
sheer, soulful eye contact of a split 
second, the infinitude of intimacy 
it begets through the dialectical, 
divine timelessness of apprehend-
ing another, enacting mechanisms 
of magnetism between two people 
who are left to ponder, pressed to 

linger in the sonder of seeing each 
other. As Ward states, “It is some-
where in the engagement between 
sight and touch that bodies become 
sexualized, somewhere in the 
junction between reception and 
response within the body’s own 
knowing. Such a desire for knowing 
or being with the other is simulta-
neously an attraction to the other.” 
It is easy to see how the homo-
social, homo-erotics of contact 
sports, gym culture, Greek Life, 
video gaming and nightlife while 
not necessarily culminating in a 
homo-sexual act but may very well 
be identified as Queer in them-
selves. These activities beget inti-
mate knowing of another man, 
inviting us to be rough and rowdy 
but also tender, affectionate, play-
ful and caring with each other. 
Between the blaring music, binge-
drinking and boisterousness of a 
night out with the boys there also 
exists a comforting embrace, even 

hugging and kissing each other in 
a fit of platonic passion. Sports and 
video gaming give rise to the trans-
gression of societal norms, as bod-
ies aggressively interact with each 
other on the field or on the screen 
with high-spirited intensity in the 
purposeful pursuit of a shared 
goal. Life at the gym lifts us up into 
temporal sites of alchemical trans-
formation as men, clad in muscle-
revealing attire, become the aspired 
object of desire, envy and longing to 
other men in the process of getting 
into shape. All these activities are 
quite Queer at their core, contain-
ing the celestial forces of attrac-
tion, which, as Moore maintains, “is 
never simple or superficial.” Yet the 
expression of this attraction, espe-
cially within “straight” circles, stays 
stifled by the dictates of patriarchy 
which ultimately leaves them rife 
with misogyny, violence and ego.

Michigan in Color
10 — Wednesday, April 5, 2023

Phallus and the fears of coming out (loud)

ANONYMOUS
MiC Contributor

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

The secrets of an orange

There was once an orange 
that appeared on a child’s win-
dowsill. Unexpected and foreign, 
they could smell the reek of it in 
their room. Their mother — and 
her mother, and her mother — 
claimed an allergy to oranges and 
all its cousins. They had never 
seen one in the flesh before then, 
and that day, they saw the way 
sunlight filled the pores of its 
sickly skin and felt their own arm 
prickle in shivers.
The child had immediately 
thrown the orange out for fear 
of a reaction and a sudden rising 
shame that their mother would 
find it in their room. But the next 
day, like magic, it reappeared. And 
the day after that, and the day 
after that. It continued to haunt 
them for weeks, and no matter 
how far they threw it away — the 
garbage outside, the neighbor’s 
trash, and once, out of the window 
from frustration — it returned, at 
the exact same sunspot of the sill. 

Its scent continued to diffuse 
through the room in those weeks, 
finding a home on their clothes, 
their bed, their skin. It was a 
dance, almost, of citrus notes that 
demanded attention and a stub-
born abhorrence that challenged 
it. But as the child danced along, 
the orange began to feel natural, 
its presence, its being. The way 
it filled their space and the way 
it stung their eyes if they got too 
close became a new comfort. They 
moved as one, in these moments, in 
a back and forth of secrets they hid 
from family.
They found themself whisper-
ing stories to it once the sun would 
set. They’d sit next to it, knees up 
to their chest, moonlight stream-
ing in and blanketing them in a 
silent intimacy. They told it things 
they had never, and would never 
— thought they’d never — tell any-
one. And the orange stayed quiet 
throughout, assuring them with 
the same fragrance they once 
hated. Bright clementine perfume, 
melodic, like a relieving sigh in the 
quiet of the night. They found it 
beautiful, then.

One night, doors locked, lights 
off, the child peeled its skin, felt 
its surprising smooth exterior 
and textured pilling whites. They 
grazed the thin film that protected 
its pulp, and finally — after months 
of trepidation — bit in. And the 
juices that burst into their mouth 
surprised the child so much they 
had to take a step back. Their eyes 
shut tightly from its acidity, see-
ing the same stars from the sky in 
their own room. It was dizzying, 
but became a new 
addiction. 
Again 
and again, they 
pulled apart its 
carpels and tast-
ed it. They were 
gentle, 
nervous, 
exhilarated. 
They 
repeated 
the 
same 
ritu-
al 
every 
night. 
Despite 
consum-
ing its fruit, they’d 
leave the skin on 
the same spot, and 
as the sun rose, 
it rebirthed itself 
and tasted sweet-

er every time. It began to leave a 
stain on the child’s skin, and an 
eternal smell on their fingers. At 
a certain point, they couldn’t hide 
it. They would attempt to obscure 
it, with pockets, gloves, soap, but 
it made its mark and they were an 
extension of its existence. Merged 
together, tucked away in the cor-
ner of the child’s room, they cre-
ated their own space.

SO JUNG “SJ” SHIN
“Pass the MiC” Content Producer

Yash Aprameya/MiC 

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

HELMUT PUFF

Elizabeth L. Eisenstein 
Collegiate Professor of History 
and Germanic Languages 
and Literatures

Toward 
a History 
of Waiting:

Time, Space, and 

the Social Hierarchy

A public lecture and reception; you may attend in person or virtually. For more information, 

including the Zoom link, visit events.umich.edu/event/103674 or call 734.615.6667.

Wednesday, April 19, 2023 | 4:00 p.m. | Weiser Hall, 10th Floor 

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

To sit with myself

I can’t help but wonder, What 
am I doing wrong? It’s a question 
that carries a despairing, stomach-
dropping weight. A question that 
I let simmer in a sealed pot on the 
back burner of my brain. A question 
that will surely bubble over and 
create a pool of self-deprecation 
for me to drown in if I consider it 
for too long. But really, what’s my 
issue? Is it facial features that fail 
to fall into the typical conventions 
of beauty? Is it a body that takes up 
too much space to stand alongside 
anybody else? Is it mannerisms 
that are far too crass and abrasive 
to be digestible by a potential love 
interest? 
As many times as I try to spin 
the wheel, I can’t seem to play the 
game of desirability correctly. I 
keep drawing the wrong cards and 
rolling all the unlucky numbers. 
I try to wear the cool outfits, say 
the funny things, style my hair in 
the most appealing ways –– but 
my efforts to abide by the rules of 
attraction are always to no avail. 
Which brings me back to my 
original question: What the hell 
am I doing wrong? It’s much 
easier to play this hopeless cyclical 
guessing game than to come to the 

bone-crushing conclusion that I 
might just be undesirable. 
When I first discovered that I 
could be seen as a sexual being to 
anyone besides myself, I saw no 
difference between romantic and 
sexual desire as long as I didn’t have 
to wake up alone in the morning. 
Hot touches and neck kisses in a 
lustful frenzy could always feel 
like true love if I squeezed my eyes 
closed hard enough. For a long 
time, warm, physical intimacy 
was enough to cover the icy 
occurrence of a one-night stand. 
On my 19th birthday, I sat with 
my back to the wall, knees bent to 
my chest and ankles weighed to 
the ground by the residual shame 
that lingered after an unfulfilling 
hookup. It left me unable to stand 
on my feet to face the people who 
gathered to celebrate yet another 
confrontation 
with 
my 
own 
mortality. I thrashed around in 
waves of regret, an almost palpable 
grime covering my body, and I 
could only figure that I was the 
problem. He strolled around my 
birthday party with an effortless 
confidence that can only exude 
from a man (or boy, really) who 
just got some. At the same time, I 
stood on shaky knees and forced 
an awkward smile as my friends 
sang happy birthday to me, all 
while my mind harbored thoughts 

of another girl. 
This experience, along with 
self-reflection 
and 
excessive 
journaling, 
led 
me 
to 
the 
conclusion that lust and love 
were, in fact, two very different 
things. Being lusted got old and 
unfulfilling very quickly. There 
was no pleasure in being pursued 
by someone who only saw me as 
a passing conquest. Being hit on 

by overserved men at seedy bars 
and being on the receiving end of 
flirtatious messages from women 
on dating apps became vacuous 
entertainment at best.
I no longer find satisfaction in 
superfluous passing interactions 
with people I know I’ll never speak 
to more than once. Now, I find 
myself far more entangled in my 
finicky crushes that come and go 

with the seasons. Still, regardless 
of the time of year, my timing never 
feels quite right. I never seem to be 
able to realize and articulate my 
feelings until the clock has already 
ticked past my time to make a 
move, and I am forced to let it all 
go yet again. This is the only option 
I am left with, as I can’t help the 
slight internal cringe when a crush 
of mine mentions their own love 
interest, almost always someone 
who is nothing like me, and speaks 
of them in the highest regard. The 
unbearably heavy feeling I get in 
my chest when I see them with 
someone else makes me remember 
exactly why it’s called a crush. This 
is when I remember that it’s much 
easier to live within daydreams. 
Sometimes 
it’s 
difficult 
to 
smother the selfish feelings of 
jealousy when I hear someone 
muse about their partner and talk 
about them as if they are more 
incredulous. Not because I ever 
desire their partner in particular, 
but because of the deep-seated 
longing to be talked about by 
someone with a voice that softens 
in tone and a stomach that fills 
with butterflies at the mere 
thought of me. 
Between the lack of Queer 
women of Color in the media, 
frivolous 
Eurocentric 
beauty 
standards that are championed 

in both Queer and straight dating 
pools, and the several intersections 
that my identity is comprised 
of, it’s hard to imagine someone 
like myself happily partnered. I 
don’t match the portrait of those 
who I often see in relationships 
and I imagine that this thought 
is a byproduct of the hyper-
independence that I’ve developed 
over the past 21 years. 
It’s easy to act like I don’t care 
under the notion that I’m just 
“working on myself.” I’ve done the 
self-growth and I’ve completed the 
healing processes (more or less). 
I pretend that it’s a compliment 
when my friends say they don’t see 
me “being in a relationship with 
anyone.” It’s easier to interpret it 
as a testament to my resilient sense 
of self that I’ve spent my entire 
life trying to build rather than an 
inability to envision myself loving 
and being loved by anyone outside 
of a platonic context. I should take 
pride in this, really. There should 
be a sense of superiority here — 
that I’m so independent, so strong 
and so individualistic that I stand 
perfectly fine by myself. And 
maybe I do take a small bit of pride 
in this. But as is always proven to 
be true, my pride will surely be the 
silent death of me.

Briana Fox/MiC 

Design by Avery Nelson

ANONYMOUS
MiC Contributor

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

