I have often found the role of an instant sociologist-anthropologist to be a great front in the profession-crazy West.
Bisexuality and the Pseudo-Bisexual
Nothing to do with bisexuality at the outset, I was once acquitted of drug possession by using the social-science gambit. The court had been convened to decide the connection between me and a suitcase containing twenty pounds of marijuana. Since I had written the first article about marijuana use by U.S. troops in Vietnam, my defense was simple: “Who me? I’m a sociologist. I need it for my research on the abuse of Cannabis sativa, your Honor.” They didn’t give the stuff back, but they did let me go. It was enough.
I’m not in legal jeopardy now, I hope, but I have recently discovered an important social phenomenon which makes me reach for my old credentials and do homage to the spirits of Charles Darwin and Sir Richard Burton. I have located and identified the pseudo-bisexual. Its natural function seems to be the preservation of the species by surreptitiously stimulating heterosexual encounters. The pseudo-bisexual has existed for eons, but since the form changes slyly it can only be captured in contemporary situations.
To understand the course of my research it must be understood that I’m an outgoing person who is generally ready for anything that doesn’t severely attack my neuroses. I also have a fairly solid orientation in sexuality, but it has been years since a hippie habit led me through a long engagement with multiple sex routines. It was thus to my great surprise, when I started my most recent travels, that I found myself propelled into a vat of sex far and away more imaginative than any of my prurient masturbatory fantasies.
Upon arrival in England, I found London to be a jewel indeed, but set in a silver sea of shining bodies. I have never sought out orgies, since they give me a death rush. I also find something repugnant in trying to hide a lack of warmth and grace under a mountain of flesh. So, when I fell into this Anglican sex-warp, I was delighted to find that what was coming down on me was not a swamp act celebrating a fear of death but rather a common lurch for identity. The burgeoning scene led to a lot of exposure, and it was here in London that I first witnessed the astounding sexual leap of the pseudo-bisexual.
I was at a party one summer evening getting professionally drunk with my friend and colleague Rosie Crucifixation. We were chatting about the minor discoveries of the day when an acquaintance of hers waddled over and sat down. He was introduced to me as Sir Rational Fasting. The gentleman immediately engaged Miss Crucifixation in a searching conversation about a lovely friend of ours, Constance Bliss. It was clear that Sir Rational had more than a passing curiosity about the size of Constance’s knickers and whether or not he might fit into them. But Rosie, who is a bit mischievous, toyed with Sir Rational’s ardor by saying, “Yes, Bliss is sweet. She’s my lover, you know. We’re bisexual. My God, aren’t you?”
Well, Sir Rational, who did want to fit in, was quick with a “Why certainly, absolutely … what? Are you kidding? Why, don’t be absurd … of course I am!”
His line was fast but a little unconvincing, and he knew it. A few moments later he tried to lighten the slack by coolly asking me if I would like to dance. As the moment was so rich with fraud, I could not refuse.
As we waltzed onto the floor I became entranced with the majesty of this awesome display of natural selection. I’m not a bad mimic myself, but this guy wasn’t in it for theater. Sir Rational had a distinct goal in mind — how to find bliss with Constance! When he was sure that Rosie was watching, he penetrated my lips with a wet and passionate kiss. Perhaps this would put out the word that he was indeed the right sort and help dilute an unwanted heterosexual reputation. He dripped honeyed words of affection in my ear, that is when his tongue wasn’t blocking it. He tried desperately to build some believable base to get through to Constance via me. But alas, Sir Rational had picked the wrong horse. I have yet to know the full vibrance of bisexuality, so I could recommend him to Constance for valiant effort only.
The evening ended mercifully in drunken confusion. I went home bemused, but after a few drinks in the privacy of my study the matter looked a little more insidious. The event was loaded with political ramifications. Though I tend to reject conspiracy theories as an emotional waste of time, I was worried. I have learned a great deal about myself through the efforts of the Feminist and the Gay Liberation Movements. Was Sir Rational actually part of a reactionary plot to suck credibility from these freedom fighters and create havoc and suspicion amongst the cadre? I had seen such things done in Vietnam with withering efficiency. Confused, I passed out into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning I woke with a psychedelic hangover. But humor filled my world, and I had sober access to areas of consciousness that would otherwise have been shut tight.
Later that day, while strolling in the garden, I had a vision. I picked up a rose. As I contemplated the thorn, I was plunged into the deepest layers of the collective unconscious. In that place where all the symbols and experiences of animate life are recorded, I saw the origins of this sexual enigma. It was as if Virgil or Oscar Wilde were giving me a tour through the period between the emergence of the naked ape and the birth of the first dandy.
I arrived back in history on a beautiful Thursday evening several thousands years after the dawn of the human story. Giddy with the day, a unique man stuck a stray parrot feather in his hair. I don’t know why he did it since there was no pool for him to peer into. Perhaps he just wanted to fly.
When he returned to the communal lair, he was instantly jumped on and sexually molested. His mates, both male and female, played with him for hours. His name was Elmer the Shy. (He was known as an inventor of sorts, since his bashfulness had prompted him to create the first woolly underwear in the region.) By dawn, his mammoth hair britches had been rent and boiled for soup. Elmer himself had almost been devoured by excited mouths that went up and down his body in a most lascivious fashion. Elmer had been mistaken for a bird of paradise and fertility. He only survived the incident because his yellow and magenta tassel was pulled off and he was recognized by Grandmother, who was busy humping his scalp. In those days almost everyone was bisexual, though they didn’t call it that. One just fucked anything that moved. Elmer, however, was an exception. He liked girls more than anything else — a prejudice considered bizarre and dirty. He was rarely successful.
Over the next few days Elmer recuperated with a queer smile on his face. His shyness had merely been a fear of rejection, and when the others realized that this colorful prize was Elmer, his reputation as a canny inventor and revolutionary lover was secure. His popularity soared. In a moment of pure silliness, this ancient had stumbled on something much farther out than mere clothing. He was the first person to imitate the plumage of another creature with tangible results in bed! Before this people had relied on instinctive trips like grunting around the fire. Flashing one’s breasts or buttocks was also in vogue.
After a few days Elmer was up and around, looking for new stuff to brighten his act. He was in such demand that cave ladies would gang up on pushy males who wanted to control the action. Knowing that he was free to specialize, Elmer started flirting with dubious sincerity. Should the blokes blame anybody for being left out, he thought, let it be the girls. Of course, he had to jerk off the odd fellow every so often to prevent a jealous pogrom.
After a while Elmer had to admit that he rather enjoyed rolling in the grass with a young boy. Nonetheless, he still dressed his lover to look like an innocent girl, but something was growing on him.
Elmer’s imagination seemed unlimited as he set about perfecting his sartorial splendor. When things finally got organized, the new Plumage Guild became as important as the Hunter’s Association. Armed with bangles and newfound confidence, Elmer became the precursor of fashion. His discovery bore fruit and had the procreative effect of creating more hunters. Symbiotically, a proportional increase in food left more time for primping feathers and making love on a full belly.
Eventually, everyone adopted plumage for a variety of personal reasons. The hunters started wearing the natural adornments of the creatures they sought— it was merely a question of what could attract lunch. Bright vegetable dyes grew trendy and so did flowers, bones, and furs. Man had found a preoccupation that gets stranger and deadlier even as hunting for food and cave drawing declines. Elmer had discovered the primal tools for narcissism, for self-adoration, and the conscious seduction of prey or mate. What’s the difference, really?
Despite his contribution to sexuality, it should be noted that this great innovator met a bad end. He never graduated to the new bisexuality. His lusty costumes became outrageous and his sense of clashing colors was far ahead of its time. As in all epochs, no culture can stand this kind of assault and a minor reform movement burned Elmer head down over a bonfire. Such is love, I suppose. The sacrifice was immense, but at least man would never seriously return to the grunt-grope. Plumage of one sort or another was now absolutely required in order to score.
By the time my vision brought me to the beginning of recorded history, the techniques of plumage confusion had been dazzlingly refined by the Aztecs and the Egyptians. The cinema of the soul had been vastly changed. Previously, our world had been a rather pure organism-environment relationship carried on without much fore- or after-thought. But with the bud of sweet artifice, we walked out of simplicity into the hustle of love.
As my journey carried me through the pre-Hellenistic period in Greece, there was a sudden inversion in the idea of how sexual plumage worked. To be sure, feathers, horns, and things of that sort were extremely useful to enhance the hunt or to frighten the enemy in wartime. But the growth of style and intellect brought us to a police society. Casual invention became secondary in importance to bright ideas. Now, attractive attitudes rose supreme. The warm safety of the cave was replaced by concept and plumage was internalized. The Doric “come on” was developed and sex was again revolutionized.
The New Eroticism was advanced and simple. A colorful mental display (i.e., a dirty mind) was as effective as the first rattle of shells had ever been. People also wanted to see a little more skin. Everyone became physique junkies. As the aesthetic of modern sex crystallized, people of intelligence began to feel how mysterious and apt the human body could be. Society realized for the first time that in every man there is a woman and vice versa. The seed image for this vision was deified iconographically as Hermaphroditus.
To be sure, pseudo-bisexuals could cope in this environment, but they were looked down upon as the scum of Eros. Bisexuality itself was considered hypocritical and heterosexuality was only endured as a necessary aberration that helped create more soldiers.
Farther to the East, in the Mithraic tradition of Persia, homosexuality was almost a religious duty. Gestation and birth were considered so vile that some religious ceremonies often involved tying a woman in labor to a tree with her legs closed. She would eventually burst open and die giving mystical delight to the pundits of the notorious Bull cult. The basic notion was that the birth of all thoughts and things brought about suffering, darkness, and duality. For them Creation had been a primordial mistake. There was clearly little room for the pseudo-bisexual to flourish here. If discovered, one could not retreat to heterosexuality for the fear of being considered a “lord of the flies.” Though the esoteric teachings were profound and subtle, the precision of the Mithraic priests obviously suffered from over-demonstrating a point. The sect died out.
War could be cited as the reason for this age’s preoccupation with homosexuality. The inevitable affection for a combat buddy is timeless. However, the practice has its defects, and these early versions were innately much too rigid. The civilizations that romped in this fashion eventually disappeared.
Life is inevitably more insistent on its own development than to allow for sexual fascism — no matter what the form. After all, if everyone got over-blissed with cunnilingus or getting screwed in the ass, we would soon be extinct. The selection of Life’s disguise is often formed with plodding cunningness and pure slapstick comedy. Witness the ass of the striped baboon who, when outrun by a predator, stops and flares its bright scarlet rump to heaven, trying with all its might to look like a convincing flower.
This nasty metaphor is well suited to my discoveries with the small exception that pseudo-bisexuals are flashing false credentials in order to chase rather than avoid.
But just then I was abruptly wrenched out of my visionary stupor by a sudden pain in my groin. I awoke to find myself back in the garden with the rose stem squeezed between my legs. I must confess a small feeling of frustration, since I had hoped to witness Henry Miller in action during the Twenties.
I had seen a great deal and, whether it was astral travel or only a dream, a veil had been drawn illuminating the living present and future possibilities. Last night’s confusing experience became quite clear.
Sir Rational was obviously not a spy or even a corruption. His fraud was for love, not disaffection. The Seventies have provided the first reasonable space for the pseudo-bisexual to go through his changes. We are on the brink of a development comparable to the “great feather find” of Elmer’s day. The androgynous bottom of our race has apparently been uncovered. Maybe it’s the result of genetic selection, mixed in with sexual liberation movements. We have been stirred in radiation and the chaotic atmosphere of Aquarian thought. Our consciousness is changing, and we now face an open window on humanity which has been closed since man first took up a club to decide his supremacy. Bisexual emotion seems to be coming around as a refuge for sexual equality. Politics can only go so far. This does not have to mean an uncontrolled nosedive into decadence and frivolity. Pseudo-bisexuality is a compromise struggling towards a new humanity. It represents life’s ongoing vow to fulfill itself.
If sexual philosophies are to be useful, they require a very light touch. Bisexuality will never be everyone’s cup of tea, but anyone might benefit from the model. Interpretations can be a wonderful tool for isolating problems, but if the interpretation becomes too concrete or revered it often is the source of new oppressions.
The pseudo-bisexual in flux is closely involved with the heterosexual’s demand for survival, but it grows toward an empathetic understanding of loneliness — which used to be the domain of the homosexual. A tone of compassion comes out of this solitary understanding that life is rough, and solace is required in empty space.
If one had something to lose, the pseudo-bisexual’s moment could be seen as a total rip-off. For him, it may feel like an unwilling and even painful growth towards a new life. It is true that nothing is guaranteed, but mysteriously the vow is kept and all contradictions are resolved.
Chung Tzu once explained: “In the beginning was One. From One there came two, and from two we got three. Three gave birth to five, and five to seven. If we go on like this, even the most clever mathematician will never know where to end it up. Better go back to One.” It was enough.
Gosh. And up until now we wondered where the fascination with plumage in one’s attire became popular. Now we know it was simply because of some chap trying to get laid. Now it makes perfect sense. … Truth be told, farcical fiction has a solid history in the Penthouse brand, and we jumped at the chance to drop some into our Legacy presentations. That said, the case for open/admitted bisexuality has blossomed — if you’ll allow one final plumage plunge — across the generations. Could be the number has always been closer to 25% but few would admit to the inclination. Who knows? We can say that your basic, or even pseudo-bisexual, has double the chance to hook up at a club, and that sounds positive. Of course they also have twice the chance at rejection too, so there’s that.
