Under The Earth

I was so tired of fighting
And after I got tired of fighting
I got tired of hating
Tired of this sorrow over what
Had been done to me
Tired of being limited
Limited by thinking nothing
Nothing ever would be made right
Hands would never touch
Bodies would never link
In love
I am tired of thinking
That one little word
Linked to another
To two hundred more
Can ruin everything
Can set a root crooked and
Make it stay that way
I want you with no names
I want to know everything will be alright
Again
All I want is coming together
Like it was in the beginning
For it to be now
At the end
All I want is tears
To wash the mess away
All I want is peace.

So I am my own subject. And I thought it was you. I tried to make myself believe that what I did was a service, and it is service, but that service is to me. If the service is to God, then it’s because God lives somewhere in me.
I think, often, that I always tell the same story, and it is my story. Again and again. As I change the story changes. As I grow so does the memory. And I have the right and the pleasure to make my own truth. How strange that in the admittance that I make my own truth I come closer to telling something authentic than if I claimed to tell, without embellishment THE TRUTH.
And what if I could remake the truth? And through it redeem my life?
And what if in my life was the whole world?
What if I transformed myself into something new, only by telling my story as honestly as I could?
And look, what if inside of me, in my body, was every body?

As soon as I decided I wasn’t going anywhere today, that I would take the entire day off, I knew that this wasn’t true, that I need those necessary ties to other people, the going to places I have to go. And even as I write this I imagine changing my mind again, or changing it halfway, taking a half day.

There are the days like this, when all work is put aside for the idea that getting on a strange bus and riding a route I’ve never been on is absolutely imperative. And I’m not saying it won’t be, or that I won’t do this in a few more days. Or that, even, I won’t do it today. Really, the last thing I need to be is alone, today. Writers and artists are always alone. Everyone is, but we know it keenly. When I look for a significant other it is like being a single parent. I am saying, “Hey, look, here. I like you. But you can’t ignore this kid at my side, these books, this writing. This is a full time business, a commitment. You may think it’s more important than you. In some way it always will be. You’ve got to accommodate for this, all right? You’ve got to love this kid too.”

I am so bad at forgiving. Yesterday morning I was ashamed and stained by anger. Last night I was just tired of hating. Tired of looking at the same thing again and again. I thought I didn’t know how to forgive, or that I had no control. Now, at least, I know I have some control. You see, once I thought I loved someone and had someone. Not like all those others who had found someone. And then this someone—well, he found someone and became one of those others and I was alone again. It still causes me pain to write of it even though I don’t want him back, never really had him to begin with.



But the odd thing is I am happier alone than I was with him, or then a lot of those who stood at my side and then left me are with those they are with. If I ever complain about being single it must be weighed against the comparative unhappiness of my friends who are not. Misery loves company, and generally finds it. Happiness, for some reason, is not the same. And everyone I ever loved was miserable, or began to make me miserable. If I could find a happy man whose roots were deep I think I might give everything. And I don’t even know what everything is. But he would not need me. Because he was already himself. And I would not need him, but my desire would be so great need would not even enter into it. But just you go looking for a happy man.

Anyone who is ever going to be with me has to learn that I am always alone. I am never alone. I am always living in a universe that I have made. Stars and planets drip from my fingertips wherever I go.

I am tired of the political shit. That has to go. The truth is that I thought: my private anger has so many political branches. My individual painful experience is echoed in so many large ways. Let me become this politically aware writer. Let me write about these great subjects. Let me, somehow, by this gift, change this country. Perhaps. In time. I thought, “If my man left me. Or refused to admit he was my man, or wasn’t even much of a man then let me make a great political action for every queer. And if for every queer, then women too. Let me be galvanized and liberal and serious about everything. I was burnt out and burning up with the need for this thing called serious political action.







Look, the only subject is me. And the only geography I am changing is that in my own body. Look, every story, every novel is like a Frida Kahlo painting. I am drawing myself, over and over again. I am my subject. I fill my eyes. I am delighted and horrified by myself. I cannot get away from him. Not even in sleep. He creates and creates.

lips like heaven
paul saw seven
but your place is the eighth
faith in your thighs
love in your mouth
charity
the rarity of the roundness
of your secret hills
will--to ride the night
like a jockey in a derby
the whole night is the derby
and your are the most magnificent
--no not a steed
need turns lies to words
riding you,
being ridden
is like the fire or the wind
like being born again

this is for Brian
whose thighs were full
and met at an ass rising
and dusky like the waxing moon
soft as prayers and cusses
firm as faith
the sight of it makes me
sure that heaven smells of
deepest earth
and its gateway in is all covered
in brown hairs

More Swimming Lessons



For me there was no business of sighing and saying, “Oh, but I wish I could write. Oh, but I’d love to be a writer… La. La.” There was only this… If I had not written, I would have drowned. I have a lot of friends and many of them are fools all the time. All of them are fools some of the time. And at their most foolish, because they haven’t given up all to be artists, they say to me and my artists friends, “when you go into the real world….” Or “I live in the real world…”

Meaning we do not.

Here is what I say to those fools: When I turned to writing it was because I would have drowned in the so called real world. I couldn’t stand to be submerged in a world someone else had made. So I had to make my own. There was no other choice.

I will say what I did not do when I began writing. I did not tell my family, and after a while I knew better than to tell most of my friends. People can’t help being what they call practical. Practical means, to most people, doing what you know can be done, that which is a sure thing. Practical means that if you don’t aim very high you won’t miss very much and people already have an idea of what it means to aim as an artist.

If you say you’re going to be a secretary, no one asks you, “And makes lots of money,” or “and get awards for it,” but if you start out to be an artist then the idea is you haven’t succeeded unless you are doing both. No one says a psychiatrist is a failure if she isn’t a millionaire, but, automatically, if you are an artist then it is assumed you want to be, you have to be a millionaire, turning out “bestsellers”—a very mercantile word. So, you see, in America artists are already being set up. It is all or nothing. Your friends cannot help but bring up money or utter phrases like, “And if you become really famous one day…” It is hard for the people around you to understand the phrase, “I don’t do it for the money…” because, you see, they do.

It is funny… Well, no, it is sad, really, the harried people who have asked, in the past, and in moderate disgust, “What do you do for money.” Why, I do remember there was a professor, a Cornell graduate who had landed himself into working in the juco I once attended who said, “what an interesting life you have. I just wonder,” he frowned and said, “When you’ll get your feet on the ground.”

You have to understand, I’m talking to all of your writers out there, but also you other artists, the codes people use. “Get your feet on the ground,” “move into the real world.” They are short phrases with definite meanings. They all mean, “When you learn to sacrifice your happiness as I have done and become sour as I have become. When your life has come to mean as little as mine.”


If you are serious about writing then you have to realize that most people aren’t really serious about anything. They’re distracted, poor things. And tired. And very often resentful. I think as an artist and entertainer it’s really a writer’s job to relieve the wearied and put on track the distracted. And it’s really your responsibility to yourself, to your soul, to avoid the fools who try to take your gift from you.

Because there is so much joylessness it is often hard to remember how much joy there is. Our struggle might at times seem desperate. But we do not side with desperation. Rather, we work out of joy. From immense joy comes all creation, and back to joy it dances.

More Lessons in Swimming

Once I stopped trying to write this book as I’ve written everything else, the writing got easier. And the writing has been easy since it began, but progressively easier because I kept unteaching myself, keep moving from the pattern that worked before. It worked once, all right, in some ways it worked several times before. And that pattern was based on another pattern. To write like a slavedriver, to push myself because when I first began I could hardly begin. All I had was this deep dream to be a writer.

And we all know just how powerful a dream without work is.

When I first started writing… no, when I first began to write novels, which is the only thing I really ever needed to write, wanted to write. It was winter, it was bitterly, bitterly fuckingly could and I fantasized about throwing myself in the frozen river. I wanted to die. It took a long time not to want to die. I began writing the way someone in the frozen forest begins rubbings sticks together. Because I needed to.

Only gradually did I begin to feel the warmth of writing.

It has taken a long time to get to the place where I did not want to die.

People tell you, and it is a lie, a luxuriant lie, about how writers need space. Need a room or several rooms of their own. Need to go off of a cabin or… or…. Fuck, listen to me. What I needed was to write. Gloria Anzaldua understood the need of a writer of color, especially a woman of color to write, of queers to write. She said, forget the room of one’s own. Write on the john. Write on paper bags. And write from yourself. Write about yourself because no one cares about you. And no one else is going to write about you. Because your tired ass, your gay ass, your black ass, your fat ass. And yes, even your white pasty ass, as it is, is simply not marketable material. So you have to write, that you might live.

It is the prerogative of those who are too white and too well off to talk about how they wish they could write, how they can’t finish what they’ve started. Blah, blah, how they want to be an artist. Listen: as to space. That is, I have found, a lie. When I began I wrote in a house harangued by a half drunk father and a half exhausted mother. Neither one of them believed in anything. The house was falling apart around my ears, constricting my throat. Everyone said in their various voices, “You’ll never write. You’ll never finish. You’ll never do anything?” And so I wrote. I wrote without the luxury of space and as a consequence my world expands around me. They say get yourself space and then write. I realize that I never sought my own space, my own home, until after my writing and my art had expanded me so there was no other choice.

For me there was no business of sighing and saying, “Oh, but I wish I could write. Oh, but I’d love to be a writer… La. La.” There was only this… If I had not written, I would have drowned. I have a lot of friends and many of them are fools all the time. All of them are fools some of the time. And at their most foolish, because they haven’t given up all to be artists, they say to me and my artists friends, “when you go into the real world….” Or “I live in the real world…”

Meaning we do not.





Here is what I say to those fools: When I turned to writing it was because I would have drowned in the so called real world. I couldn’t stand to be submerged in a world someone else had made. So I had to make my own. There was no other choice.

When power is gone
Love remains
It is for this love I have taken off
My rings
Shed my garments
And all affections
And come walking after you
I don’t want anything to come between me and you
Watch me walk across the desert and burn up like the ant
In the magnifier
Like the beloved in the fire
I swear to you
Beloved,
I love you as the moon loves the night

Now there is only this hollow and scary place where peace and love can begin to grow
I didn’t say anything for such a long time and then, last night, I wrote him a letter with no love in it, a response to his unkindness to me. Some of my friends told me things to the effect of wishing him peace, putting a sort of Buddhist mantra on him, sending him good vibes, rising above the shit. I don’t believe in that, and I had no good will to give. This is not the place or at least not the time to reprint the letter I wrote, but what I needed to send him was honesty and all the vitriol building up in me for weeks, thinking of how I had never responded to him. People say that what people need is encouragement, but sometimes what they need is the truth, what some people need to be told is the truth of who they are, or at least your truth of what they did to you. I did it. I have said the final word, there is nothing left to be done.

And now I forgive him. Now he is the past, not to be blotted out and erased, but to be the seed and the soil from which something else can grow. He is the past from which some redemption can be sought. And oddly enough, as I wish for that redemption I find myself wishing him… peace.

The Frat House and the Circuit Party

Alright, so I’ve just seen a gay porn. I was about to say, I’ve been watching porn, and lately the ones I’ve seen have disturbed me. Disturbed me by telling me something about me. The puritanical—and completely dishonest ideal—is that watching porn should disturb me in this first place. But who named it porn? And who called it wrong? Who said, “thou shalt not?”

You’ll say, “but you’ve been watching gay porn the whole time”. Ah, but there was a premise generally. These were ordinary guys. Yes, Sean Cody’s guys were more or less certainly gay, but there was that sort of Corbin Fisher fallacy of “we’re two men having sex in every way we can with other men, but we are not gay.” It filled the videos I’ve been watching. The guy who doesn’t know what he is, but has a deep need to experience another man’s touch. The first time, the faux amateur porn. It’s all so hot.

I suppose I was watching a circuit party, the ultimate in gayness, and that’s how I came to understand part of the draw to the myth of “straight men having sex with each other”. It’s part of the reason gay, an American word usually reserved for white men of a certain social—and I would even say geographic status—is so unappealing to a lot of young men who experience themselves as queer. Naked men and half naked men, dancing about, casually and mechanically throwing fucks out amidst dance music, flashing pink lights, oiled bodies. It wasn’t nearly as hot as the Corbin Fisher College students in the house—in the frat house? Why not?

The frat house and circuit party conjure up two images for queer men to seize upon. The frat house is the place of ultimately brotherly unity, of true masculinity where secret things the girls—or the uninitiated—don’t see. There is the idea of being let into some private secret rite in those videos and rite that is ultimately one of brotherhood. The frat house orgies describe not often so much incredibly hot as incredibly regular guys with desires that cannot leave the house, that are deep down, initiating each other into them. There is generally a great deal of warmth in affection amidst the hard fucking, the sort of team spirit you see on the football field taken to its extreme. Here all the frustrated desires men—queer and straight—have for affection with each other are fulfilled to the nth degree.

The circuit party conjures up the word gay. In the word gay are all the men who are sort of secondary, who can help a straight guy accessorize and who are fabulous, but in the end superfluous. I will use the word queer instead of gay because so many young men have the sense that once they accept it, and its connotations of tinted hair, meshed shirts and misspellings (boi, thanx, cum) they are no longer taken seriously. To be gay is generally to be unseen or seen in the most flamboyant of lights, but not seen seriously.

If you can call a pornographer moral, then certainly Sean Cody is more moral than Corbin Fisher with his College Amateur Films. Cody gives a brief biography and explains his love of the male body, his difficulty in coming out. His suspicion that, of course, many of the guys who come to him aren’t sure of their sexuality, are curious, need to experiment. Corbin Fisher has no intentions of pretending being remotely honest. The world of web porn is, of course, a fantasy, and Fisher holds to that fantasy. I wonder though, is everyone supposed to know it’s a fantasy? Do his “actors” know it’s all a fantasy. By it, I mean their straightness, their non-gayness.



The guys I approach for the site tend to be attractive, straight guys who have no difficulties getting laid. However, if a guy is attractive and happens to be gay or bi, I certainly don't discriminate! But make no mistake - these guys are complete AMATEURS, most of whom have never done anything like this before. Therefore, some of the guys are shy and take a little coaxing, while others are very outgoing and uninhibited.


I embrace variety, so not every guy on CF will appeal to everyone. All of them share certain, important traits: they tend to be straight, college age (the majority of them younger than 22), and have trim to muscular physiques and cute faces. I understand that many viewers particularly enjoy certain areas of a guy's physique...armpits, asses, feet, hands, chest, what have you. Rest assured that I strive to film every delicious inch of the guys’ bodies, to maximize your pleasure and satisfaction!

On AmateurCollegeSex.com, you will see my straight models paired up with a chick or even in a guy/guy/girl bi video, with the focus being entire on the guy! As AmateurCollegeMen.com has likely already made you aware, though, you can bet your booty that I never waste an opportunity to encourage straight men to act out their curiousity about "what it would be like...!" to mess around with another guy! And yes, the cliché about college being an "experimental" time is absolutely true, as AmateurCollegeMen.com certainly proves!!

Beyond my name, Corbin Fisher, you won't see me on the site! You may catch me chatting with the guys on some of the videos, but you won’t see me. I promise.



I live around several colleges and this is really the WORST town to start a gay porn industry. There ARE a lot of horny young men in college. There are a lot of curious young men in college who would like to try out a whole host of things.

But the word for a man who feels the need to try out having sex with men not only once, but repeatedly is not straight or curious or even bisexual.

It’s gay.

The word for someone who feels this compulsion so strongly he finds himself being filmed having sex with strangers, having sex in orgies, having sex with himself… all on film, for the web, for billions of people all over the world… That word is generally fucked up.

Except I don’t they are fucked up. And that’s what we’re going to spiral into soon. When someone wants to use the term “fucked up” but they’re being polite, they say: “Something deep is going on inside of him.” And I think that is the truer comment. When we watch these videos we are watching people who are doing something for us in front of us, generally private, because something deep is going on inside of them.

I’m not sure why Fisher would go to these fantastic lengths. Of course he not only does not discriminate against gays, but any man who spends his time filming young men having sex with each other—who did not merely inherit the family business like a Corleone, but decided, “I’d like to do this,” cannot be straight. There are many ways to make money and, quite frankly, many ways to make more money, than gay web porn. Over and over again Fisher troubles to tell us that these men are mostly straight. Anytime anyone has to tell you over and over again, “I’m not something…” regardless if this something is gay, Black or anything else which has been traditionally undesirable then it’s pretty certain that he is that something. And then the question becomes, but why do you resist being that something? Does Fisher put up the fantasy of these men being straight for their sakes, so that they can go ahead and have sex with each other? Or is it for sake of the viewer. At any rate I think it is a danger to put in front of queer men the ideal of a man who is not, to say what you really want is straight men having sex with other straight men. And… how can that possibly exist? The danger in this whole business about the illusory straight man who fucks other straight men is how it is breeding a whole generation of guilt ridden and oftentimes violent johns.

Once this man told me
Over a course of one day and one night
How his world had fallen apart
And so he went to the underground
Under the Earth he looked for home
Turned around and turned again
Gave his body to women and men
As he’d always wanted
Always wanted
After the upperworld
Had forsaken him
After the baptismal name had lost
Its salt
He sought out
New waters in Lethe
I too descended
With torch in hand
To the underland
To the kingdoms of flesh
And longing
To open the book of the violence
Of skin
Untwist from within
From the seed
From the blood
The longing of men
And weeping of men
And the map of fire


A man—he said he was straight, and who am I to say he wasn’t, wrote on a public blog network about his desperate sexual journey. His wife had left him. He has a son. He was thirty-one, blond, six feet tall, athletic and handsome and tired of doing things the right way. He began first by having as much illicit straight sex as possible, and then began to have sex with men in showers at hotels, experiencing receiving anal sex. He didn’t write it the way I am writing it now. He wrote it like he was bragging, extremely proud of himself.

Another blogger wrote that he should tone it down because kids were on this network, something that this probably wasn’t true. A few minutes later the blogger, he called himself Giggity, removed his pornographic post. I wrote to him. We talked that night. Really he said he was desperate and his whole life had gone to pot and now he was at a place where he was doing everything and wasn’t going to let any desire go unexplored. Most of those desires, of late, were homosexual.

I wonder if its like that for a lot of the men in gay porn. I wonder if their need to do it may be greater than my need to see it.

Yesterday I watched one waiting for my assumption to be contradicted. My assumption? That there is an element of compassion and need fulfillment in gay porn or even in the solo, duo and group sex acts it imitates that does not exist in their straight counterparts. This video was and elaborate scene, part of a movie about a young boy's sexual exploration, and opened onto a seen where three naked frat boys were masturbating and championing a fourth who, in a slightly uncomfortable position was fucking a last.


“Fuck him!” “Fuck him!” they were saying in hard voices, and in turn the three were ejaculating on the two involved in the fuck. They kept chanting: “Fuck him!” “Oh yeah!” and the one being fucked came with relief and happiness after a great shout. Then there remained only the original fucker and he came up, took off his condom and began stroking himself. He was reaching orgasm, but not there yet. Finally the others began to stroke him; some masturbated him, others just gently kissed him or caressed him and, when at last he came with relief and happiness, they all hugged him and kissed him and he kissed them all, they leaned down to kiss the one who had begun on his back being fucked. And all through the video there was this kissing, this hugging and championing of the others, each one helping the other to his orgasm. This was representative of the orgy videos. The fantasy in gay porn isn’t just sex; it’s the mutual support and vital encouragement, the brotherhood men don’t really very often receive in the real world.

This is important because porn, like all entertainment either well done or badly, speaks to our fantasies. We who have a hard time distinguishing truth from fiction seem to believe in the myth of porn sex, the hope that somewhere out there is the three way or the two way for that matter, where even though I am told "it's just sex" it will be wonderful and compassionate and give me everything I need. The fact that in this society no one really feels comfortable talking about any kind of sex, let alone gay sex, has a lot to do with the cynicism, fear and anger that many men feel after sexual encounters with each other. You can't believe what you see on TV, or on the computer screen. But everybody wants to.

After my first actual boyfriend, and even during him, in that time when i waited chastely for him to get his act together, and the most affection my virginal body knew was a kiss, my sexuality was screwed up. But surely it was screwed up before. I was frigid, that was one reason nothing ever happened with us. When he began to have sex with someone else, and a woman at that the way I looked at sexuality and myself as a sexual person was completely ruined. The person I was closest to, who I loved and who claimed to love me was engaged in casual and shameful sex with someone else, to make himself into a heterosexual. Add to this, though he was capable of fucking, or even of touching affectionately someone he didn’t care about, his care for me came out as if I were biohazardous, the untouchable virgin. If he touched me it would all be over.

Once as I was leaving his house he took my gloves, put them on and pretended to strangle me, and then smiled.

That was him, let's call him, even in preparing to touch me he needed some form of protection. This contrast to the person he began having sex with while still romancing me and hoping for a future life between the two of us was enough to fuck me up a great deal, both as a young person in love and a young queer.

I bring him up again, after I am all too happy to put him down and leave him there, because his unexplored conviction that being straight, having a girlfriend (who only wore ill-fitting stilettos and made him ejaculate over himself I might add) and possibly be married was better than being what he was—which was manifestly homosexual. He wasn’t a queer, he wasn’t gay. That’s choice. That’s moving toward something. He was homosexual in the very evangelical sense of the word. Ashamed, dirty, defective, wishing he was something else.

Well, of course this meant he had to go. I had someone in my life that thought that my life, my values, any love we would have had would have been defective. Which is where I begin my talk on pornography. Pornography, the big bad devil that every queer website is, if not linked to, then two or three degrees away from being linked to. Why, when the rest of the world states out loud that porn is bad and some people murmur that it is… something, do we, despite our complex feelings about it… support it, largely?

I do support porn. Gay porn, queer porn which I hold to be as different from straight porn as being straight is different from being gay. Both forms of pornography map out in large the way we feel about heterosexuality, homosexuality. It was watching porn that I began to understand the ex-boyfriend I hated, began to have compassion for someone who became the symbol of my revulsion. It was watching two men make love to each other that I learned that, although I sort of knew what I wanted, I never knew exactly how far it could go. I learned to manipulate my own body. After my conflicting feelings about sex, connecting it with how I felt about Boyfriend—not good—watching porn actually allowed me to enjoy sex, exalt in my sexuality and in sexuality in general. It’s not going too far to say I got a healing.

Gay porn is really the only place you can see the sort of sex you want after straight people fucking on billboards, in movies, on Trojan ads are foisted on you twenty-four seven, or where you see tenderness between two—or more—men. It’s the place where a different sexuality, the one you nacreously dreamed of, is mapped out. I doubt the porn industry is run by altruistic people, and I doubt there are a lot people doing porn with the thought, “I want to map out a new sexuality for queer peoples and show them all the diverse possibilities of love the above ground world doesn’t show.” I doubt they do it intentionally, But they do it all the same.