|
January 28, 2002
This older fellow on the stationary bike next to mine at the gym said, "Is
that your bike squeaking? I thought it was my knees!" That might not be the
greatest come-on line in the world — unless, like me, you live to be under
big fat hairy old men. As I pedaled furiously to make the squeaks more
piercing, I pictured going back to his place: He tells me I have to wash all
his dishes. He's in a wifebeater and no pants or underpants on the
La-Z-Boy watching TV with a bottle of Heineken. I'm in just a shirt as well,
washing the dishes, which must have been sitting there a long time. He
mostly watches TV but glances my way on occasion, tells me to spread my legs
wider, rubs the bottle absentmindedly against his cock,
the head of which
rises up over the top of the armchair arm. When a commercial comes on he
says I'm not doing a good enough job and flings a bottle cap at me.
The Big Fat Hairy Old Guy (BFHOG) is not a man who just happens to
be fat and old, a state which eventually befalls the best of
us. You know him as the one with misplaced yet somehow vortical confidence,
emerging from the pool in a wet hair-sweater and Speedos, yelling in
German at his kid to bring him a Tab or a beer. Or the Guy Already in the
Sauna at Someone's Gym — men around the country keep telling me about this
guy. They look disturbed when they describe him; they pretend not to have
felt his allure, yet they carry on about how "strange" it was, this nearly
obese, nearly naked MAN taking up two-thirds of the hot tub, legs spread
obscenely. They mention his hairy chest and arms then ask me if I think
they're gay. No, you're not gay. The BFHOG is compelling beyond sexual
preference. You can't help it.
To roll about in the stained paws of a guy who knows none of my friends or
family or readers or tastes, to be here and not here simultaneously —
that's my BFHOG dream. It happened once for real, back when I was eighteen
and not afraid of being murdered by strangers in strange states (West
Virginia, to be precise). He was a whiskey-drinking, cigar-smoking,
bacon-munching, gray-headed farmer in overalls; I was lithe
as a piece of gristle stretched between a tooth and a forefinger. This guy
never once emptied an ashtray; he'd fill one up and just leave it there,
then start sullying a fresh one. In his house, overflowing ashtrays sat
under the card table, on the seats and arms of dog-torn chairs, under piles
of newspapers, atop the refrigerator, on the counter. Six or eight of them
formed a half-circle — an ash-moat — around the couch he and I were
bouncing up and down on. The brass cross that hung over the couch glinted
dully. His mother had probably tacked it there fifty years earlier. A single
drop of sweat hung off his forehead, growing, swaying, until finally,
finally, it dropped square onto my forehead just the way I knew it would.
The goats tied up outside would have to wait for their dinner.
My favorite Dover BFHOG is Big John. I first saw my living doll in
the summer of 2001 at Carabella's, a lounge where roofers play pool and
drink for seven hours straight, communicating with grunts and shouts and, in
the seventh hour, incredibly sad yet really weird soliloquies. "Big John,
no!" rang out voices from the back of the bar in the sixth hour of that hot and fateful
night, and
I turned to see Big John wrestling another guy almost his size — so
deliberate in their every thick-fingered shove they appeared to be in slow
motion. When I rewind, the shadowy pair get slower and slower and
slower. I can only imagine the heavy sex that went on that night between Big
John and his scrawny, hysterical, jean-jacketed girlfriend. She must've been
crushed not only by his weight, but also by his supreme confidence, which
comes from knowing in one's bones the secret: very little effort is required
to make an impact. Whim ("I should pound him for looking at my woman) converts to action before anyone notices it has changed shape. I hear toned,
chiseled, expensive-haircutted
men brag to similarly-coiffed friends at the airport about what they're
"having done" — maybe to the house or the boat. It's like plastic surgery,
except outside the body. Big John has nothing done. He is outside the
struggle, standing tall, and I slide down in my booth at Carabella's hoping
for another glimpse of him.
Since the farmer, there have been many Big Fat Hairy Old Guys in my radar,
but none have landed between my thighs. Somewhere along the way something
ossified my limbs while
making my mind run like liquid through my stone body. When I was eighteen, I
didn't contemplate sleeping with the farmer to escape existentialism, I did
it. Now I only watch. And think about Big John while in my husband's smooth, skinny arms. One more night with a BFHOG
could crack me open again, I just know it.
Sometimes I try to imagine an actual relationship between me and, say, the
farmer. He'd treat me like one of those green-tinted tin ashtrays: fill me
up and then toss me aside. I'd go rinse myself out and come back to be used
anew. I'd never lay in HIS house with eyes open in the dark, agonizing over
whether I should leave him (because I'd know I was going to leave . . . probably in two hours) or how I spend too much time indoors or my best
friend's $50,000 debt and suicide wish or if my son is getting enough love
or whether my writing is any good and am I fulfilling my destiny or totally
missing it or maybe I don't even have a destiny and hunting around for it
has been a waste of my life. BFHOG would take me outside my world, but not
into his. I'd hover nowhere, without tension. His lack of interest in the
Real Me (and my disbelief that there is a Real Him hiding) would pare everything down till
there was nothing left to do but mop up after him, maybe let him have sex
with me again. The simple pleasures.
|
Commentarium (33 Comments)
BFHOG smiles.
this is so true its scary ! what is it about the tony sopranos of this world , maybe a backlash from all men acting so p.c ? whatever it is long live the BFHOG - but strictly for a little bit on the side !!
Lisa, you're a one of a kind genius. Sylvia Plath was a big bore compared to you, in my opinion.
Oh yeah, Tony Soprano is so hot! Kegs are much more sexy than six-packs.
Lisa, You have the most strange , and foreign odysseys. I think you might perhaps seek some therapy.
Unless of course; this is an exercise in theoretical feigning for your amusement, as well as your readers.
I love it! Love the straying away from the beefcake is good mentality. Fun.
SWEATHEART! the hair on my back grew an inch reading this sexxy-stuff. Now, I WANTCHA ta come over here an...
Lisa needs therapy. Serious therapy.
As opposed to joke therapy?
am I the only one reading FEAR!!! in the essay?
Fear of what? Fear of having something good out of fear of losing it. Sure get yerself a BFHOG, this way it'll be easy to deal w/ when he leaves u or u leave him.
I believe in your destiny but I wonder the same thing (about mine and yours). And if I can't bear to NOT know my ambitions, can I bear the person I'll become by becoming so unrelenting and arrogantly pure? Can I bear how maudlin and one-sided that will be? If only leaving a pail of destruction in your wake was attractive, and I was Ray Charles, a big brilliant pig on an adventure to sanctify and ruin, but we gotta be moral too. How to break that pyrrhic victory implicit in the bitter stone-throw of writing? Its the stoic stuff that sets us apart from Plath and Cobain. Babble on...
At 38 I'm far from old, but I am hairy, with a really cool belly, and a sex drive that would put any bookish, chiseled twenty-something boy-child to utter and intense shame. Where are you, Lisa? I'm waiting...
yummy
Lisa, you are amazing. I've never heard escapist sex commented on so accurately. The desire for someone completely wrong for you is so strong precisely because they are completely wrong, and therefore interesting and different. Thanks again for another great article!
hey lisa im a big fan of your writing. and i loved the HBO special. great interviews (the guy at the end in the bar was the best) thanx. and keep up the great work
tim noble
(btw.. i use to be one of the dj's on nerve radio)
great topic lisa, i remember talking to u about this in the chat room.... i hope all is well w/ the hubby and convincing him that sex is great while pregnant
Thanks, Lisa, for always telling it like it is. You always have an extremely perceptive outlook that reminds me of that abused, disfunctional child that seems to still live inside me. Your column has enlightened me in more ways than you can imagine. I appreciate the light, airy and humorous way that you communicate some dark issues.
Thankyouthankyouthankyou!
ah hha ha aah aahh hhaa ah haaaaa haa hha hhaa ha hh ah ah hha ha aah aahh hhaa ah haaaaa haa hha hhaa ha hh ah ah hha ha aah aahh hhaa ah giggle haaaaa haa hha hhaa ha hh ah ah hha ha aah aahh hhaa ah haaaaa haa hha hhaa ha hh ah ah hha ha aah aahh hhaa ah haaaaa haa hha he hee he hhaa ha hh ah ah hha ha aah aahh hhaa ah haaaaa haa hha hhaa ha hh ah ah hha ha aah aahh hhaa ah he hee he haaaaa haa hha hhaa ha hh ah ah hha ha aah aahh hhaa ah haaaaa haa hha hhaa ha hh ah damn. funny funny honey. thanks a million!
Lisa,
I just watched your sex survey, polling on anal sex. GREAT footage. This article on the bfhog'sis really hot too. Your a star. A prude star but none the less...
Your writing is fabulous and I love that your not afraid to speak in language of frank and very open nature.
You are a cunning-linguist...great vocab.
Your new fan,
Outside the struggle... that's the draw. The BFHOG doesn't see a gap between his life and some other life he's supposed to live, so he doesn't worry about it. The chiseled guys at the airport act as the opposite pole; they chase a better-looking existence, presumably because they're concerned about the adequacy of what they have. The opposites set up a question: is anything worth worrying about? Between death, destiny, love, sex, and financial ruin, there's enough cause for worry to crush the breath out of you. Is there a way to live with separation from the ideal way to be, or can you only hope for escape?
Lisa, Hey thanks a lot creep!!! I was that guy on the bike next to you at the gym!! I am neither fat nor old (younger than you as a matter of fact)...jeez....this hurts...and..you wear goofy workout clothes too!!..lol
ps. Haven't seen you at the gym lately!!
SJS, I'm glad you wrote. I didn't really look at you at the gym. I get all shy there, I always feel like I'm on some undercover mission. If you recall, I gave you one sideways half-glance and barely said a word in response to your questions. So, you see, I was just thrusting my fantasy on your stranger's body, so don't take it as an accurate description of YOU. Hey -- maybe you could write an essay about girls in goofy workout clothes.
i too am a sick bastard looking for some fat old hairy guy, but not looking too hard, you know? although, i find that my tastes seem to run towards the republican big framed glasses type, with gold class rings and perfect power ties. (And for the record, NO, my father was/is nothing like that.) Having just driven through the South, I can see the blue collar hillbilly appeal, but something about ripping off a two-piece two button Men's Warehouse suit, in say, an airport Ramada Inn, makes me all weak and wet. i just have to ask, where does this come from??? (p.s. I also think that Julian Schnabel is really hot, but he's in the artsy man-bob fat hairy bastard category.) for the record, I love reading you, Lisa. don't worry so much about your destiny.
In my judgment, this writing IS good. But cumulatively, the columns are boring (as is Cary on Sex & the City) because they are so incessantly narcissistic They focus not only on self, but on just the sex life of self. For me that is CUMULATIVELY boring, even though the writing is clever and the utter candor is fun. But: I'm just a [superannuated] guy, who'd rather read sci fi action stuff than Relational lit (exactly the way D. Tannen says it is as between the sexes). (Do I not remember a sceme om which Lisa depicts self as holding a cock in each hand, mouthing another, and THINKING? That's what I mean when I express appreciation for the matter, as well as for the writing).
lisa, you need to talk to your old man about getting in touch with his less than sensitive side that all men are born with, even if you don't want that all the time...
Hi Lisa! I'm burning up, you get me so excited. I met you in Louisville a couple of years ago at one of your shows, we made out quite passionately on stage (I think I tore your ass up, if I remember correctly, I have pictures!) You signed my copy of dancing queen, and wrote that I was a really hot kisser and you didn't go around using words like hot all the time. That is one of my most prized possesions.
I found your web page for Rollerderby, but it wouldn't let me email you. I just saw you on HBO and jumped up and down on the bed, hitting my boyfriend screaming "Oh my god, I was so in love with her, we made out at her show!" I had to find you, and tell you that I am so glad I found your diaries and feel so much better about my dark and sinister fantasies about Harry Potter's cruel Professor Snape and what he would do to my fantasy young witch 14-year-old boarding school self. That wand! And what a large wand it is! I didn't really feel that the fantasy was naughty, I was afraid it was really dorky. But fuck it, Alan Rickman would make me do terrible things, and I like that. I'll get out of your space now, I'll try to scan some copies of those pictures if I can find them. Where should I send them? You are one of the reasons I will always love playing with girls. Love and naughty thoughts.... Chrystal
I dunno, the idea of getting turned on by a BFHOG doesn't appeal to me. They don't look after themselves, thus not caring about themselves enough to even think about caring for me. Maybe care isn't what is required in a BFHOG liason, but to me, it is almost essentiol.
%00.02
disgusting...absolutely disgusting...a 6 ashtray moat around the dog-torn sofa....bleagh.
Nonetheless, a well written piece.
You are quite ill, but not really.
I understand your thing for the type of guy I used to work like hell not to be. I have since discovered that doing away with the inner BFHOG is not entirely good because you turn into Phil Donahue. I figured out that as a male you have to keep an inner La-Z-Boy in some part of your psyche for that BFHOG, and occasionally, you have to let him take over. He knows what he's doing. He doesn't worry a lot and he can always get a boner.
I love how this piece shows a sweet sexual, aesthetic and cultural appreciation for a male archetype often seen as ugly, the "wrong" kind of unreconstructed, and virile and masculine by default only. I'm almost tempted to say that Lisa is one of the exceptionally rare females with an honest desire for what most men seem to naturally slide into when not maintained, and therefore one of the few truly interested in their target gender, not in a preconceived construction of it. But Lisa also shows this unmaintained blue-collar masculinity to BE a construction, as do bear admirers ... So I can't say that she is one of the very few "real" heterosexuals (or true admirers of their target gender, all preconceptions and projections aside), because there is no such thing, although it's tempting. (This reminds me of how Lisa has cited Bukowski's ability to find transcendence and knowledge with so-called old, gross women.) I love the poem and the story of its unfolding. All the best poems offer intertwining visions of sex and metaphysics, and a Weltanschauung, in highly compact form. How did the workers pronounce "garage"?
I'm so glad I'm not alone in my obsession. I laughed a great deal. I should send you a picture of my neighbor across the street. He's quite the Neanderthal but I'm hot for him like crazy. Thanks for sharing!
This did wonders for my heart. I AM "Mr Big Stuff", but all the ladies I know prefer slender, shaven, "girlie-men". Hey Lisa...I'm all yours...and I'll do my OWN dishes;)
I just have one question... Dover in what state?
Now you say something