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