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William E. Jones. True Homosexual Experiences: Boyd McDonald and “Straight to Hell.” We Heard You Like Books, McDonald. Cruising the Movies: A Sexual Guide to Oldies on TV. Semiotext(e), 2015.

Suppose that in the White House there is a glory hole. That in the Supreme Court, in the New York Times Building, in the headquarters of the Motion Picture Association of America — in every place in the United States where decency is defined and defended — there is a special bathroom where people suck cock. If these cruising spots were ever made public, scandal would follow. They would be condemned, converted into sites of shame. In reality, though, they just might be the only sources of compassion and truth on the premises: a thousand points of light spread like stars throughout the nation.

“Contrary to their reputations,” Boyd McDonald once said, “the real hot homosexuals who have sex in toilets and so forth are simply nicer people and more concerned, more caring, more loving, more affectionate, and friendlier than the prudes. The prudes pretend that they are the ones who are decent, and the ones in the toilet are indecent, but it’s just the other way around.” McDonald devoted much of his life to chronicling what the truly decent people — the ones in the toilets — were doing. A Harvard graduate and World War II vet, McDonald spent his first two decades of adult life as a “drunk and hack writer” working for corporations like Time Inc. and IBM. He found his calling in the early 1970s after he got sober, dropped out of straight life, holed up in a New York City SRO, and began publishing the zine painted a world full of glory holes, where around every corner men were having every kind of sex. A reader once called it both “fantastic jerk-off material & consciousness-raising stuff.”

For some readers in the ’70s, was a revelation: men were having sex with one another everywhere, all the time. It wasn’t just happening in New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles; it was happening in Pennsylvania shopping centers, Ohio taverns, and South Carolina Sears bathrooms. Vietnam vets, produce haulers, cops, “family men,” octogenarians, high schoolers, priests — all were having sex with one another. They were eating shit, drinking piss, licking boots, groping each other on the subway, making out on the beach, cruising each other in broad daylight, sucking each other off.

But for all his influence, McDonald has remained an enigmatic figure. It’s easy to understand why: he was a reclusive man with a patchy history and a low social status. His work, even by today’s standards, was shockingly filthy. The sex in was neither justified nor justifiable. It was only, in McDonald’s words, “the simple truth.” McDonald’s refusal to assimilate still feels radical in today’s age of queer gentrification; at a time when people are searching for more uncompromising visions of queerness, his work is ripe for rediscovery.

In a new biography, , “is that true?” Overwhelmed by the volume of papers McDonald left behind, she threw everything away — the books, the magazines, the journals, the letters.

McDonald was born in South Dakota in 1925. He was drafted into the Army at age 18, and after discharge he went to Harvard. For twenty years following his graduation, he had one foot in the world of “straight” corporate media and the other in the subterranean world of gay sex in postwar America. McDonald’s “introduction to homosexuality,” as he put it, occurred while he was touring with a dance band right after high school, but his most formative sexual experiences were in Manhattan in the 1950s — he called it a “wildly promiscuous” time and place, and said he had sex with up to three strangers a night. It was a world of men’s rooms, bathhouses, and martini bars where men had sex with each other after a long, closeted day at the office.

After graduating from Harvard in 1949, McDonald got a job working for as a stepping-stone on the way to a respectable literary career — John McPhee and Calvin Trillin got their start there — and McDonald’s long-form articles indicate that, had he wanted, he could have been a “serious” man of letters.

Though . In an early issue, McDonald captions a photo of a corrupt member of Jimmy Carter’s administration holding his infant grandson: “Grandfather Exploits Baby.”

“It was such a trauma for me, going to work,” McDonald once said, “that I started drinking that very day. And I drank constantly afterward.” McDonald left , after which he floated through corporate writing gigs for about a decade, sinking deeper into alcoholism. By 1968, at the age of 43, McDonald had lost his job, his apartment, and most of his possessions. Finding himself drunk and alone on Long Island, he checked into a psychiatric hospital, sobered up, applied for welfare, and moved into a single-room-occupancy hotel on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. He liked to tell the story of when he pawned all his business suits. “I remember the feeling of exhilaration,” he recalled, “when I realized I couldn’t have gone back into an office as a writer even if I’d wanted to.”

According to his friend Jim Tamulis, McDonald was first inspired to pursue erotic self-publishing after reading Gore Vidal’s 1968 novel , which ran letters from readers about their foreskin-related desires and their real-life sex tales. The sex stories were apparently unsolicited; it turned out that men were itching to share.

.” In early issues, Jones notes, “a swastika dots the letter ‘I’ in most titles containing the word ‘straight.’ ”

It’s difficult to find early issues today, and due to changes in publishing laws since the 1970s, they would also be hard to reproduce. McDonald had no proof of age on file for many of the young men who appeared naked in the pages of , and readers sent in photos of former lovers who may not have known they were being featured in a pornographic magazine. Photos of naked men with hard-ons (or “hards on,” as McDonald would say) ran on the cover.

In the beginning, ). McDonald paid for printing costs with his welfare checks — he joked that it was the only gay-sex magazine funded by the US government. The zine was available via subscription and could also be found at adult and gay bookstores, but it was shunned by some of the more mainstream gay establishments — the owner of Greenwich Village’s oldest gay bookstore refused to carry it.

Over the years, the aesthetic and tone of the zine softened and became more professional: photo quality improved, tirades mellowed, swastikas disappeared, offset printing and staples were introduced. But the essential elements remained the same. The zine had a recurring string of subtitles — including “The Manhattan Review of Unnatural Acts” and “The New York Review of Cocksucking” — and taglines like “The Paper That Made New York Famous” and “Always coarse, never common.” Each contributor letter had a tabloid-style headline: “10 Hawaiian Dongs Unload on Tourist,” “Adultery in the Men’s Room,” “Mechanic’s Asshole Is Clean; Has Fragrance of Gasoline.” Sardonic commentary on the straight world and straight press was scattered throughout; McDonald liked to run errors he found in the , which he considered his main competitor. Every issue featured explicit photos, sometimes in collage form. Some shots were run with permission by photographers like the beefcake pioneer Bob Mizer of the Athletic Model Guild and David Hurles of Old Reliable. Hurles photographed ex-cons and rough trade — “the state’s most gorgeous goons, hoods, and whores” — which suited the aesthetic of a magazine that celebrated the working class and maintained a fascination with the straight male sex object. Other photos were sent in anonymously: a sports photographer contributed a shot of Pete Rose grabbing his dick through his baseball pants but asked to not be credited so that he wouldn’t lose dugout and locker-room access. McDonald also ran interviews with marines, strippers, smut photographers, hustlers, luminaries like Mapplethorpe, and regular joes. His wit and attention to detail were such that even an interview with one particularly terse man was illuminating:

Letters composed the bulk of the magazine. They’re hard to sum up; each writer had a different style and story, and McDonald took pains to preserve their individual voices. Letters were edited for length, but never paraphrased or fictionalized. McDonald left intact their misspellings, unusual grammar, and digressions. On the whole, they were candid, unrepentant, and detailed. A two-page spread in issue forty-seven features a British man with a 7  5/ “I withdrew his hand and pulled my blazer over the conspicuous blotch, the damp stigma of my delight.” Other letters were barely literate: “He dropped his jean. His C was not too thick but sure was nice.”

McDonald was strict about adherence to the facts. For him, the truth was more valuable than an enhanced story. It was also more erotic; that these things had really happened and could happen again was what made them a turn-on. “Any hack writer can be coherent,” he said, “but these are amateur writers and they put a lot of incoherent things in. . . . The letters I like are the ones that are pretty ragged. A lot of fears and flaws, failures.” The letters rarely followed pornographic convention, and many stories continued long after the climax, trailing off into the uncertain endings so common to casual sex. “We agreed to do it again but so far we’ve never connected,” wrote one letter writer. “We went on like this for a while and then he said he had to get back to work,” wrote another. “I hoped he might give me a few more moments with him but I knew that those were silly thoughts. The fact that I couldn’t touch him again made me realize that we’d only had a momentary business deal and nothing more.”

In McDonald’s writing, gayness is goodness and all men who aren’t in some way deformed enjoy sex with other men.

McDonald saw himself as continuing the work of Kinsey. He viewed ’s uniqueness. McDonald was not interested in theorizing or analyzing the stories he received. His interest was in description. His correspondence with his readers was nothing less than a massive collaborative endeavor to define homosexuality, in the sense not of fixing its limits, but of giving shape, texture, and detail to a thing so often addressed dishonestly, with condescension or euphemism.

“Gay is abstract,” McDonald said. “Homosexuality is very specific, like in my books.” He’d come of age in a time before “gay pride,” when homosexuality was what you did in certain men’s rooms, and to him the declaration of gay identity was much less interesting than what men actually did together. He said in his last interview, with the gay Boston magazine the:

My work is an alternative to the gay liberation movement and to the gay press. The gay press has to be sexless because they are public. And in order to be publicly gay they have to be closet homosexuals. My books are all about homosexuality rather than gayness. In other words, gay is what they are in public, and homosexual is what they are in private. My books are all about their private lives. It has nothing to do with gay liberation, gay rights, gays in the military, civil rights, fundraising, political candidates, and all that stuff.

Mainstream opposition to McDonald’s way of life became increasingly organized — and increasingly virulent — in the 1980s, when Ronald Reagan was elected to the White House. The Meese Report pushed for lawmakers and prosecutors to crack down on pornography; the United States Supreme Court, with what dissenter Harry Blackmun called “an almost obsessive focus on homosexual activity,” upheld Georgia’s anti-sodomy law; and anti-porn activists on both the right and the left fought to expand definitions of obscenity. Sex began to change too, with the AIDS crisis ending much of the promiscuous public sex that had been the focus of McDonald’s work. Around this time, McDonald passed editorial duties of (which actually brought in money, unlike the zine) and to writing more of his own criticism.

From 1983 to 1985, McDonald wrote a weekly column about movies for the gay literary journal to Bomba the Jungle Boy’s “chaste but occasionally fickle loin clothes.”

These films, broadcast at all hours of the day on many channels (a person would need to be unemployed, and maybe an insomniac, to catch them all), were made in the era of the Motion Picture Production Code, which from 1930 to 1968 delineated what was appropriate to show in films. At various times the code forbade, among other things, the depiction of “sex perversion,” miscegenation, indecent exposure, the drug trade, brothels, dancing with “excessive body movements while the feet are stationary,” and terms including “nuts (except when meaning crazy),” “hot (applied to a woman),” and, inexplicably, “hold your hat.” With regard to sex, the code made a distinction between “pure love” and “impure love” and was partly enforced to prevent any stimulation of the “lower and baser element.” But when you need to stimulate your baser element, you’ll find stimulation anywhere. Just as one might cruise the street looking for hints about where to find sex, McDonald cruises the movies for their suggestive moments, the places where, either intentionally or accidentally, the stall door has been left ajar.

Respectability is, after all, a shield, and “serious criticism” is a good mask for insecurity or plain stupidity.

In McDonald’s reviews, plots often go unsummarized; the commonly accepted “point” of movies is missed. Some articles focus solely on a single scene or shot, the fertile moment that feeds McDonald’s fantasies. At times McDonald mimics the high-flown style of a serious critic, or parodies the usefulness of a [1966], seen at 4:30 p.m., September 25, 1983 on channel 1”), all the while describing men’s bodies and what one might like to do to them.

Often, the articles were based on film stills and promotional photos, many provided by the now-defunct MoMA Film Stills Archive: a shot of Michael Callan’s “unnerving groin” in yet another trapeze outfit, or of Gary Cooper wearing lipstick. A painted ad for is compared favorably to an El Greco or Delacroix: the ad features a line of muscular collegians in underpants, bent over with their thumbs hooked under their waistbands as though they’re about to moon a crowd. (“By excruciating use of shadow on the underpants, the artist managed to limn vividly the butt cheek and crack values inside the pants; the sensitive art lover can almost taste and smell them.”)

In  — like the imagined smell of an extra’s hair tonic, or the condition of a star’s underpants after a day’s work.

McDonald was especially attentive to the male “suck object”: he writes that Gary Cooper has the “immense dignity which comes only from being well sucked,” while David Nelson “could, had he wanted, have spent his life being licked.” About an extra in , he writes: “even the veins of his left hand suggest that he is well wired and capable of squirting a mouthful of cream when properly aroused out of his alluring complacency.” He has a special love for the actor Richard Widmark and his devastating leer: “You can say or do anything to a man who looks like that; you can feel of his fly and, a little later, unzip it. In fact he wants you to (he thinks it’s good for you).”

If the letters in , Charley Shively writes that McDonald’s works “do not just invert middle-class values; more profoundly, they enunciate cocksucker values.” In McDonald’s writing, gayness is goodness and all men who aren’t in some way deformed enjoy sex with other men. Inverting the sexual paradigm, he writes of heterosexuality as an aberration, an unnatural thing that must be learned, “a duty more than a desire.” War, sports, and crime are the three “secondary heterosexual activities,” by which men can learn and assert “straightness,” which is more of a power status than a sexual one. You do not have to fuck your wife to be “straight”; a man can just as easily assert his heterosexuality through violence, which McDonald calls “a Reagan Era kind of heterosexuality, expressed through relentless boasts of masculinity and through the discharge of bullets, not sperm.” If a man has sex with a male hustler but goes home to his wife, spews homophobia, and climbs on the necks of others as he ascends the ladder of respectability, who is to say he’s not straight? “Straightness” does not just signify vanilla sexual interests but an alliance with the ruling elite, and a willingness to throw outsiders under the bus.

Given the bleak backdrop of the 1980s, the humor in can feel both dark and necessary. In a decade when homosexuality was considered synonymous with pedophilia and gay childcare workers were persecuted in the moral panic about satanic ritual abuse, McDonald calls an 8-year-old Johnny Sheffield (Bomba the Jungle Boy), who wore a loincloth and bedroom slippers to an interview, a “precocious little tease” and a “child molester’s dream.” At a time when the Reagan Administration was stubbornly refusing to address AIDS, McDonald suggests the President’s anti-homosexual statements are just compensation for the fact he’d grown a pair of “big fat tits.” Elsewhere, he calls William F. Buckley — who suggested that gay people with AIDS be branded with tattoos on their butts — one of “the nelliest men in the nation.”

At one point in has sold its subscription list. He calls David Nelson’s butthole his “vital center,” citing Arthur Schlesinger Jr. On the one hand, it doesn’t matter that McDonald was a Harvard man; he himself writes that education has nothing to do with intelligence and that graduating from a prestigious university is “an economic classification and not . . . an intellectual and moral one.” But McDonald’s credentials help position his SRO-dwelling, pornography-publishing life as a choice, an active repudiation of respectability.

Respectability is, after all, a shield, and “serious criticism” is a good mask for insecurity or plain stupidity. McDonald praises the “confident intellectual,” one who can simply enjoy Bomba the Jungle Boy instead of avoiding him on principle or pummeling him with theory. McDonald paints other reviewers as a little sad and dumb in their steadfast repression of desire, such as a is a corrective to all the “plot-crazed” film critics who deny one of the main roles of film: to inspire fantasy, both about the stars on the screen and about ourselves in the world.

McDonald’s confidence in seeking his own pleasure in movies, as in life, was in many ways the mark of a sophisticated critic. On the other hand, his obsessions were just that — obsessive — and McDonald could be as inflexible in his worldview as he was radical. John Waters aligns McDonald’s work with Valerie Solanas’s, calling , “the most radical (and hilarious) filth classics in modern literature,” and the coupling is telling. Though less didactic in his militarism than Solanas was in hers, McDonald was, like Solanas, an embarrassment to leftist strivers and a comic genius who, by reading society on a slant, revealed truths too damning for respectable discourse to digest.

Jones suggests that to call the product of an obsessive crank is to dismiss the work, but the figure of the crank is a valuable one. The crank lives on the margins and sacrifices respectability in order to tell his truth. The crank doesn’t chart his ideas along preexisting theories or schools of thought, but on his own experience of the world; he is driven not by the values and opinions of others, but by his own pleasures, fetishes, manias. Because the crank stays true to his own singular logic, contradictions become the texture of personality and thought, rather than signs of hypocrisy. Returning over and over to his obsessions, the crank intellectual approaches criticism as a work of art, bringing forth his own fully realized version of the world.

At the end of ’s current editor, Billy Miller, he subsisted on coffee, doughnuts, cigarettes, “and maybe the occasional glass of water.” Friends referred to his single room, with its tobacco-stained walls, metal cot, hot plate, typewriter, and shopping bags full of readers’ letters, as monastic. Like the Cynics, McDonald was against dogma and convention, and believed in a virtue found through practice rather than theory. He preferred the honest kindness of a good blow job to any political platitudes. He held a lamp up to society, looking for an honest man — and, of course, he found him in the toilet.

The markets for sex and porn have changed drastically since McDonald’s day. The dirty bookstores where was once sold have all but disappeared, and cruising has mostly moved to the internet. In recent issues, older letter writers mourn the demise of public sex. “Glory holes and O-holes between stalls were such a common thing that people just got used to it,” writes a reader in San Francisco. “Now they go out of their way to plug them up. . . . It’s so crazy, who’s doing this and why? What’s the logic? Why do they care so much about a damned hole?”

These days, new issues of perfume would not make any sense,” he says, “unless it smelled like piss.”

was McDonald’s obsession, and few could devote their lives to a project with such fanaticism. It now takes five people to do what McDonald once did on his own: the zine has an editor, a handful of designers, a proofreader, and volunteers to help solicit stories. Those stories are vivid as ever, though the specifics have changed: “His place smells like pot,” wrote one recent contributor, “and his widescreen TV is on and a reality TV show is playing.” In the latest issue, one man gets picked up in the plant section at Kmart; another reader cruises a guy in an Ed Hardy shirt at the airport. Letters continue to come in from older men, like the former marine who recalled having sex in a navy brig right after World War II, and Miller has a few men who write to him regularly from prison.

Recently, he says, he sent a copy of to a Swiss “fashion expert.” “Thank you for sending me your publication,” the expert responded, “although I did not find anything in the texts or photos sexy or erotic. It’s basically what my friend called ‘a jerk off magazine for the poor and working class.’” Miller ran the letter in the latest issue, and says he couldn’t think of a better endorsement.