Glenn Beck Porn!


You just never know, I guess, in this media-saturated age, when you're gonna go from being an underpaid, underrecognized pornwriter to being a full-fledged threat to Civilization As We Know It.

The lovely sexologist Dr. Carol Queen and I have, for several happy years now, been cohosting a show called "Perverts Put Out!" which happens to be the longest running series of sexually oriented readings and performances in, well, at least in San Francisco, and—who knows?—maybe the whole wide world. Let's say it's the world, all right? So anyway, several months back, good ol' Fox News aired a big ol' expose on the National Endowment for the Arts funding what Glenn Beck called "Perv Revues." Which meant us.

Now, this being Fox News we're talking about, it should come as no surprise that the report was riddled with factual errors great and small—not the least negligible of which was their lying about the fact that PPO receives not one thin dime of NEA gelt. Mattered not: Beck became, as is his wont, all huffy, Greta van Susteren got her cast-iron panties in a twist, the right-wing blogosphere bloviated. Some jerkwater congressman from Florida got five minutes of airtime to accuse me and Carol of helping destroy American culture. As if. I was even excoriated—though not by name, dammit—in the august pages of the Wall Street Journal, the newspaper of record for billionaires who screw over this country on a regular basis, but are never called to task by, um, Fox News. All over some dirty words and a penis or two.

Okay, in a weird way, it's an honor to be dragged through the media mud by the dumb fux at Fox. But, well… A decision is made by the venue we rent, CounterPulse—which does receive NEA funds, none of which are passed on to PPO—to lay low. Meaning that none of us is supposed to raise a public ruckus, just wait for the whole thing to blow over.

And that blows. Because, hell, I'm just your average perverted, culture-destroying homo. And I want revenge. And on those occasions when living well isn't the best revenge, maybe writing dirty is....

Glenn Beck is standing naked, hands tied behind his back, ankles shackled by leather restraints. Brutal titclamps, connected by a weighted chain, hang from his big, fat nipples. His eyes are downcast, his breathing is fast and irregular.

His medium-length, chubby shlong is hard.

I reach down and slap his stiffy.

"Thank you," he mutters.

"I can't hear you."

"Thank you, SIR!"

He sounds half miserable, half ecstatic. Just the way I like 'em.

"It's not that I hate straight right-wing idiots," I snarl. "I just hate you."

He slyly glances up at me with those wide, faux-innocent, watery blue eyes of his. Just what is that expression? Contempt? Desire? The pleasure of martyrdom?

I swat his shaft again.

"You know," I say, getting nasty, "Olbermann's meat is twice as big as yours." Silence. "And Jon Stewart's is even bigger. But then…he's Jewish." I go in for the kill. "Hell, even Rachel's clitoris is bigger than that."

I grab his loose-hanging nuts, tug, stretch them out with one hand, slap them with the other. He gasps. I take a this-one-is-for-ACORN pleasure in hearing him moan with pain. I hit his distended testes a few more times,

I think about how Beck objected to the New York Times refusing to print the word "faggot." I have no such compunctions. Not now. "Turn around, faggot," I command.

Ankles chained together, he shuffles around in a 180, fleshy body trembling. For a second, I idly wonder how he'd look in drag.

Glenn Beck has a big butt.

I untie his wrists. "Bend over, hands on your knees." Say what you will about shameless a-hole demagogues, Beck knows how to take orders. I spit on two fingers and slide them roughly into his resistant rightwing hole, then add a third.

"What's already been up that tunnel of love?" I ask, maximally snarky. "Greta van Susteren's strap-on? Rush's big old stiff cigar? Hannity's tongue? O'Reilly's loofa?" I think about mentioning something about Pat Buchanan, but even enflamed by lust, I retain some trace of perspective.

I root around inside his reactionary butt for a minute, then pull my fingers out.

"Stand up."

He does.

"Turn around."

I glance down. Beck's bone is now not only hard, but dripping. I put my sullied fingertips up to his lips, the lips, I think, of a confirmed knob-gobbler.

"Lick them clean," I command.

He resists.

Which brings up a question. There's no debate that what Fox News did was non-consensual. Poor little Perverts Put Out! was assaulted, with no chance to defend itself. And that was wrong. So this Glenn Beck fantasy is, um, what?

It's an ambiguous moment, for sure. I mean, we can all agree that rape is wrong. And yet, it's a staple of sadomasochistic porn. Hey, I once edited an SM anthology for a publisher who specified that there would be no nonconsensual sex, which is pretty much like a mystery publisher refusing to print tales of nonconsensual murder. There is, of course, the Big Escape Clause of leatherporn: "But after a while, he realized he liked it." (Which is perilously close to the rationalizations of rapists, but let's not get too heavy here.)

So how about it? Is my imagined Glenn Beck actually enjoying his abuse at my horny hands, in which case my fantasy isn't one of revenge, but just another tedious tale of a hardworking top doing his best to get his bottomboy off? Or am I actually torturing an unwilling jerk, something he might, given the harm he's done, deserve, but a position that leaves me as morally compromised—at least in theory—as Rush telling his housekeeper to go score him some OxyContin?

And what about the homophobia stuff? Isn't calling Ann Coulter a transsexual more an attack on transpeople than a blow to her? Why should Glenn Beck be secretly queer? Aren't there already quite enough disreputable closet cases out there giving head? Why can't the bozo just be some thoroughly het Mormon moron who happens to hate homos?

I guess I think too much when I'm having sex, or even when I just have my own junk in my hand. But then, what separates humans from beasts, or at least me from the blowhards at Fox News, is that I allow, even cherish, ambiguity.

Fox's world is strictly good and evil, black and white. Mine—and I trust yours, too—is black, white, gray, yellow, brown, red.

I'm humping Glenn Beck. I pound into his big, now-yielding butt. My conscience may be bothering me, but my penis has never felt better.

He looks up at me. "It's starting to hurt," he says. Tears are welling up in his eyes.

I hump him harder.

                                                                             copyright 2010 by Simon Sheppard