We at LGBTicons reached out this week to our followers on Twitter and Facebook and asked what kind of material you would like us to cover.
Whilst most people were very happy with our mix of current affairs and profiling LGBT people of achievement, some stated that they’d like to see us featuring more information on sport and travel.
As luck would have it, we’re currently very excited about this wrestling tournament taking place in Turkey.
We’re developing a profile piece on Lady Gaga and are looking for superfans to interview. We’ll be focussing on her role as an ambassador for the LGBT community and looking at her body of work.
If you have something to say about Mother Monster and how she has affected your life, let us know and we’ll be in touch in the next couple of days.
You can leave a message below, get us on Twitter @lgbticons or email LGBTicons@gmail.com
PUT YOUR PAWS UP!
“Why is it that these women have forgotten how great it was to have a role model that not only stuck it to the man, but then stuck it to herself, in herself and tasted it as if to say how dare you moderate my sexuality?”
Barry Church-Woods
I’m a Madonna fan.
For a lot of people of my generation it came with being gay. Like the pop culture equivalent of the gentleman’s lavender handkerchief or Truman Capote’s dickie bow, loving a certain someone from Rochester, Michigan whilst owning a penis has for a long time insinuated that you would like to get into the groove in a way that doesn’t just involve dancing.
Being a Madonna fan replaced the word bachelor for a while.
My grandmother used to introduce me to her friends as a ‘Madonna fan’. When I showed up at parties dressed in a conical bra with a fake head-mic on, it was because I was a ‘Madonna fan’. When I nearly set fire to the back garden, burning crucifixes and dancing in front of them, it was because I was a ‘Madonna fan’.
It seems that lately, Madonna had become a dirty word and the press are ready to crucify her at every step.
She’s recently been in the media for her shocking antics in Malawi. The terrible thing she did last year? She built 10 extensions to existing schools creating education opportunities for 500 children and young people. She should have built 10 schools apparently, but lets be honest, progress is progress no matter how long it takes to get there.
She also got her boob out on tour, came on stage two hours late most nights and called famous nazi Marine Le Penne out for being a…wait for it…a nazi.
Oh, and we mustn’t forget this one. She adopted two children from a third world country where they were sure to suffer disease and malnutrition from severe poverty, and she…she fed them. And clothed them. And gave them a nice home with a nanny. The cheeky cow. How dare she?
Around the time of the release of her film W.E., Madonna mentioned in an interview with Harper’s Bazaar that nowadays when anyone writes anything about her, her age is right after her name as if to limit her achievements or remind her that society would like her to stop soon.
A quick online search finds this to be true. It also finds that most of the negativity thrown at her in the past 10 years has been from women. Women that grew up singing along to True Blue in the mirror with a hairbrush, bleaching their hair in the 80s, and wearing lace gloves to weddings when they were kids. Women who it seems would now prefer her to crawl under a rock and stop doing what the world fell in love with her for in the first place.
Why is it that these women have forgotten how great it was to have a role model that not only stuck it to the man, but then stuck it to herself, in herself and tasted it as if to say how dare you moderate my sexuality?
What has made them forget the sheer joy or behaving in complete contradiction to how society would expect them to? The role model that once told them that she wanted to conquer the world seems to have done just that and yes, dreams really do come true.
For some.
Sadly, it seems that many of those little girls being told there was a new tomorrow where anything was possible have now grown into the jaded bitchy fat girls in the corner, unhappy with their 9-5 existence in their cul-de-sac in Bury St. Edmunds (or equivalent), jealous of the continued success of the woman that defined a generation.
Madonna’s latest album MDNA seems to have been a commercial flop. While much of the media read it for what it is, a fun up-tempo record with some great production, the same women I’ve been writing about complained that it didn’t have the depth befitting of a 53 year old woman. That someone with children should be singing about heartbreak and pain. That Kate Bush just did an album about fucking a snowman that was brilliant and Madonna should do something similar or give up.
The fact that Madonna’s film W.E. depicts a very real time in history, where a man gave up his throne the be with the woman he loved is not without irony set against the backdrop of calls for a reigning Queen to abdicate her throne to a more suitable suitor. Someone more bendy, more youthful perhaps? Someone that doesn’t wear leotards? Someone that acts her age?
But really, deep down, we know what these critics want.
They want her to fuck off and stop reminding them of all of their failures and broken dreams.
But she can’t. And shouldn’t. And mustn’t. And here’s why we need her here to stay in the public eye. At least another few years.
Growing up in the 80s, girls wanted to be her, boys wanted to fuck her and boyz wanted to fuck like her. She was an instant role model.
She was the first voice I ever heard saying that homosexuality was an acceptable way of life.
Until then, the only other person I’d heard talk about homosexuality was Jerry Falwell. In 1968 he said that preachers are not called to be politicians, but soul winners, and sixteen years later, his hypocrisy shone through as he led a movement that helped put Ronald Reagan in the White House, conservatives on the Supreme Court, and turned the Democratic South solidly Republican.
Bad. Yes.
But then he did this.
He funded an international campaign to recognize AIDS as “God’s punishment for being a faggot”. Not just that. It was also God’s punishment to the world, for allowing faggots to exist.
Imagine all that power; having a voice like that? A voice that was heard all over the world. A voice that was heard by this 13 year old “faggot” in a council estate in West Lothian, Scotland.
Now I was always taught not to speak ill of the dead. But it is hard when the dead person was a hateful cunt of a man.
His harmful opinions were set against a backdrop of political inefficiency and lack of education about HIV and AIDS that allowed the disease to progress at a rate unheard of before for something that wasn’t airborne.
But then came Like a Prayer.
Amongst all of the controversy of the brilliant video and the scandal of a $5million Pepsi deal gone wrong, Madonna did something wonderful. Something very simple and under the radar. Something missed by most parents and God fearing Christians. In the album sleeve-notes, she inserted some writing about the dangers of HIV and AIDS. And a safe sex message. In one simple move, she’d countered the hatred and broken the firewall to information…for her fans at least. Did I mention a lot of them were gay?
From that point on, Madonna started to raise her game. Acting out in public to get her message across. Bending the ear of her loyal army of fans and helping the message infiltrate society.
It’s OK to be gay.
She pushed buttons, she changed fashion, she changed buttons, she pushed fashion. Her impact was so endless for this 36 year old homo that it actually took me until I was 17 to realise that the Madonna/Whore complex wasn’t a statement about how my sister dressed and was actually rooted in a time before Madame Ciccone.
And to this day, she continues to support the LGBT community across the globe by using her position and status to keep hitting home with the same message:
“You cannot use religion to treat other people badly, you cannot use God’s name to treat other people badly, we all deserve love,”
Change is happening. One day, equality will shine through. But we’re not there yet ,and personally I don’t think it’s time for the LGBT community to lose a voice that defined a generation.
Thank you Madonna.
“After reading the Crucible and realising what a cunt I’d made of myself I desperately needed something to redeem my confidence. I wanted the perfect role. A solid, deep 3 minutes that showcased my range and my cast-ability for the upcoming seasons. An engaging speech that showcased my face, voice and physicality”.
Barry Church-Woods
At 17, my best friend; Gay Craig and I auditioned for drama schools together. I’d already fucked one up massively the year before; determined to get out of school as soon as I could*.
*Apparently, if you don’t read the whole script, it is possible to play a John Proctor monologue from the Crucible in a green pinstripe suit while smoking a cigar. (Add to this the fact that I had a shaved head and a quiff, I’m actually pretty impressed that the audition panel didn’t laugh in the face of the young clueless boy that looked like Ani Defranco playing at being a grown up).
Fortunately, a year makes a massive difference when you’re that young.
With a little more maturity, I was ready to throw myself to the lions again. In the spring of 93, with the hope of being afforded the rare and sought after opportunity of becoming Leroy from Fame, I started to work on my tan. And my monologues.
For those of you that are fortunate enough not to have undergone the humiliating process of auditioning to get work, you should know it’s the equivalent of giving a dog a biscuit for rolling over or giving good paw. But instead of a crunchy treat, your tricks need to be of a standard to convince a director, panel of lecturers and sometimes even your contemporaries that you are worthy of the opportunity you are chasing. Sometimes it’s a day’s work that will pay your bills for a month. At other times, it’s the opportunity to develop professionally and be in with a much better chance of getting work in the future.
We were facing the latter and were about to embark on a series of auditions to get into one of three sought after courses available to aspiring actors in Scotland.
As such, we needed the perfect monologues to convince potential course heads that we were exactly the right people to occupy their hallways, singing arias while stag leaping our way to superstardom.
After reading the Crucible and realising what a cunt I’d made of myself I desperately needed something to redeem my confidence. I wanted the perfect role. A solid, deep 3 minutes that showcased my range and my cast-ability for the upcoming seasons. An engaging speech that showcased my face, voice and physicality.
I searched libraries far and wide for the perfect character. Something about a teenager from a council estate. Someone from West Lothian.
Passing Places. The Life of Stuff. Find Me. Trainspotting. The list of opportunities was endless. I worked on four or five different performances. Night and day. Day and night. Over and over again until they were all instinctive. I was all ready to go when Craig brought me something that he said was perfect for me…
Bruce Niles, a thirty-something ex marine from New York whose boyfriend had just died of AIDS.
Perfect.
Here’s a picture of me at 17.
Regardless of how inappropriate the casting would be in the real world, the writing was so powerful that I elected to create a tailored performance around the piece.
It got me into college.
From that point in, I developed an incredible relationship with the play, it’s themes and it’s author.
In my second year at college I used WH Auden’s poem September 1st 1939 as stimuli for a street performance for World Aids Day. The Normal Heart took its name from the poem. This was the start of a long relationship with World Aids Day.
As a director and producer, my first publicly staged work was a preview of a section of the play and my first successfully written funding application was from the Health Education Board of Scotland for the full show to be produced. Incidentally, this also bred my first BBC radio interview for that production and egotistically my first ever standing-ovation.
Revisiting the monologue in my graduation showcase at the Pleasance got me cast in my first film and when a few years later, I applied for a grown up job as a Cultural Coordinator for Fife Council, it was apparent that where I was in my life at that particular time all came back to The Normal Heart.
That job opened so many doors for me professionally that by 2007 when I restaged the Normal Heart with Civil Disobedience it was with the full support of Larry Kramer, at the National Museum of Scotland and came with an editorial in the Sunday Herald.
26 years after it was first written, the play is as powerful as ever. It’s recently been revived on Broadway and Ryan Murphy has announced that he had been given the film rights. Personally, I can’t wait to see what the creator of Glee, Nip Tuck and American Horror Story does with it.
As I sit in my beautiful Edinburgh flat contemplating my incredible job, today I’m raising a glass to Larry Kramer and all the boys from Act Up. But most importantly, I’m raising it to big gay Craig and the wonderful moment he created that set me on this track.
Had he lived, today would have been W. H. Auden’s 1o5th birthday. To mark the occassion (any excuse really) we’re publishing The Platonic Blow. Perhaps one of the filthiest poems from the prolific writer. Probably best not to read if you’re prudish…or male and wearing thin trousers in company. Enjoy.
The Platonic Blow
It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.
I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.
Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say.
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak
“Will you come to my room?” Then a husky voice, “O.K.”
I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy
He told me his story. Present address: next door.
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.
He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.
And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.
I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair.
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.
He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.
The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate
Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,
It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.
By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.
I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.
But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.
I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown
Trunk against white shorts taut around small
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.
The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.
The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.
Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,
The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.
We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,
All fact contact, the attack and the interlock
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch
Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.
Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.
Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.
I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.
Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.
I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed
The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.
Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.
“Shall I rim you?” I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.
Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.
His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.
I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside
Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair
To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.
I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.
Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.
He thrilled to the trill. “That’s lovely!” he hoarsely said.
“Go on! Go on!” Very slowly I started to move.
Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.
Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.
I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb
And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.
I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered “Oh!”
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.
Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.
He melted into what he felt. “O Jesus!” he cried.
Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.
This Wednesday’s midweek guilty ‘pleasure’ comes in the shape of a French Canadian, singing a dance version of a track written for Roy Orbison in 1987 and made famous by Cyndi Lauper in 1989.
Celine Dion’s version of I Drove All Night brings sinister meaning to the lyrics.
Please note, there has been very liberal use of the word pleasure, but it’s halfway through the working week, and we only just found out that this exists. So plug in your speakers and turn up the volume and enjoy this incredible car crash.
Happy Valentines Day! Whether you are marking today with a partner, a friend, a pizza or your cat, remember, LGBTicons loves you very much. To show our appreciation, we’ve dug out an old clip of Kylie Minogue performing Love At First Sight. Enjoy!
It’s LGBT History Month in the UK, and we, along with a shed load of our friends are changing our avatars on Facebook, Twitter, Myspace (because it’s 2004) and Bebo (cough) to a rainbow flag to mark the occasion. Why don’t you join us.
Lesbian Gay Bisexual Trans History Month takes place every year in February. It celebrates the lives and achievements of the LGBT community.
We were lucky enough to catch everyones favourite Drop Dead Diva Margaret Cho in Edinburgh two years ago with her brilliant show Cho Dependent. The show has been turned into a live album and not surprisingly (to us at least) it’s been nominated for a Grammy. To celebrate, she’s giving it away as a free download until the Grammys.
Just go to this link, click download or buy now and enter 0. Isn’t she a doll?
Margaret is currently on tour with her show MOTHER. Buy tickets here.
Something wonderful to keep you cheery on a Wednesday afternoon. Plug in your speakers and crank up the volume. Beth Ditto and Gossip will help you Move In The Right Direction!
