In a recent interview of a Proud Boy ruffian identified only as Rufio, the group’s patriarch Gavin McInnis mysteriously and inexplicably disrobed at the torso to conduct the interview bare chested, with a dad-bod barely less heinous to bodily aesthetics than his tattoos and beard. The disrobing went unremarked on. The overt homoeroticism of the display seemed almost second nature to the participants. As an outsider to the group, I was perplexed. I expected answers but received none. I wondered what I was missing. I’ve heard of secret handshakes and lingo specific to clubs and subcultures. But this unabashed display of pale skin and man-boobs between these men….what did it mean? It sure hinted at something, right?
McInnis just prior to, then during the interview.
Far be it for this journalist to judge anyone’s sexual preference or proclivity but it begs the question, has the time come when right-wing machismo and cocksure posturing and the rejection of women by MGTOW and Incels have finally led the alpha-lobsters to accept there’s only love to be found within their own heterogametic sex? Have they finally succumb to a nepotistic homoeroticism as the necessary consequence of their collective narcissism?
You got the Proud Boys whose mascot is literally a cock and one of their oaths, a condition of the fraternity, is to swear off masturbating more than once per month. I got to thinking that seems kinda strange so I asked my uncle who’s a member of the Fraternal Order of Eagles if there’s anything in their bylaws about jacking off. He looked at me quizzically and replied, “no.”
“Has jacking off ever been discussed during a meeting? Or among yourselves, privately?”, I asked.
He said they get drunk a lot but even then, there’s never been reason to discuss that. Then he asked if I’d gone queer or crazy. I said, “no” but asked, “if I was a member of a club and we discussed beating off….”
“And our mascot was a cock and we like to get shirtless when we’re together……would you still believe I wasn’t queer or crazy?”
“Absolutely not,” he said resolutely.
When I was a kid, the husband of the old lady who babysat me was a member of The Independent Order of Odd Fellows. I only know and remember that because he had a license plate declaring himself as such. If he was still alive, I’d like to ask him if The Odd Fellows had any rules against beating off. You might expect it from guys self-professed as odd but, still, I bet they didn’t. And even though the Masons are secretive, to my knowledge there ain’t no principle about masturbation to their membership either.
So what are we seeing, the hyper-machismo of the modern day fantasy Spartan turning to man-man and/or man-boy love as well? I suggest it could be. After all, professional firebrand and far right mouthpiece Milo Yiannopoulos made statements construed by some as apologetic of man/boy love without getting flogged altogether outta the right-wing pack.
And then there’s Steven Crowder and his proclivity for cross dressing which is beyond heterosexual explanation. Crowder may defend it in terms of comedy, but everybody knows that even Tom Hanks couldn’t make that shit funny way back in 1980. I suggest that Crowder’s explanation/excuse in terms of comedy is no different than the housewife who explains her vibrator away as “for sore muscle relief.”
And lastly, Ben Shapiro, whose transphobia might be best explained by the Joe Rogan joke, “There are only two reason to hate gay marriage. Either you’re dumb or you’re secretly worried that dicks are delicious.” In Ben’s case, just substitute gay marriage for trannies. Couple that with Shapiro’s awkward appearance on Crowder’s Christmas special with a sexually gape-mouthed reaction to a bound Crowder, tormented by an inexplicable buff and bare chested Chippendale’s Santa. Shaprio’s pantomime can only be described as one of oral acceptance or “balljobbing” (Urban Dictionary: licking or sucking of the scrotum or testicles). Crowder’s perverse Christmas special was one big powderkeg of assholes and nutsacks and mistletoe thongs and jingle bells ready to explode. A ribbon and bowed package stuffed with repressed male sodomy, flimsily kept shut with scotch tape and tissue thin wrapping paper.
There’s a saying about all things in moderation. But what happens when you go beyond moderation? Does what you stand for become the antithesis of what it once professed to be? Does uber-machismo (excluding Milo and Shapiro) turn to cross dressing and the homoerotic peacocking of bad tattoos and facial hair and dad-bods? And a sexually accepting gaped mouth in the presence of a man bound and tortured by a Christmas version of The Village People? A mouth agape like the hole on a putting green, eager to accept much the same?
I don’t know what’s going on with the right but it’s starting to seem awfully strange.