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I read with undue relish an article called, “The Chicago Bro Is Coming to Ruin Your Neighborhood.” Not that I am thrilled that the beer swilling, lawn pissing, stereo blasting jocks have taken over great areas of the city, but finally someone pinned down what I have been saying for years: most young white guys (not exclusively, but there is some truth to the stereotype) are jerks, and their fathers were probably jerks, and their fathers were the ones who slammed sissies into lockers and grabbed girls (or boasted of grabbing them).

I used to call them spoiled brats. Now, like the article, I think word douche applies. (Hmm … sounds like our Harasser/Douche/Vulgar Boor in Chief.)

The area by Wrigley Field in Chicago is now “bro” central, because of its proximity to a sports arena, but the area has always been bar heavy, but it was more like bars one would go to listen to bands, not scream and yell over monstrous TVs blasting “the game,” whatever it may be.
 

But it seems like the exodus into the city from suburbia to have more readily accessible sex (one of the reasons many LGBTQ migrated to cities as well) that began with the yuppies in Lincoln Park in the eighties is in full swing, and the bros are now infiltrating areas west and south of Wrigleyville, such as Logan Square.

I must admit, yes, they exude like sweat the hotness of youth, physically attractive in the most overt way without trying to be. Think manspread, which one really notices in those sloppy shorts and T-shirts and overall lack of clothing that conceals the bro wears. He looks hot even in rags.
 

And all those gay porn videos with straight guys, or at least ostensibly straight. And all that cuddling and bromance.
 

But if that attraction is welded together with narcissism, as the article claims, “the rules of common decency don 't apply to him,” and the usual “boys will be boys” smack of approval … we might as well run the country like a fraternity house and its worst excesses.

What disturbs me is the overt homophobia and misogyny this culture, but something that happened the other day in Toronto is another disastrous result. A driver of a van mowed down several people, resulting in casualties.

He expressed anger towards women in social media posts. He resented being “involuntarily celibate,” that is, he could not be with a woman and thus be a “real man.” Essentially, he was upset because he did not fit in with what he called, “The Chads and Stacys.” Take that to mean, in some ways, the bro culture.

Toxic masculinity. It's obvious here. Horrifyingly obvious. But are gay guys exempt from participating in this dynamic? That another question. But it's clear that gay guys have been the victims of this culture in its various forms for a long time, perhaps since the beginning of time.

Whatever the case, I am not going to let these bros wreak havoc on me or mine. Grow up, or get outta here. And guess what? You will grow old, and your hotness won't cover up the fact that you are, and always will be, jerks. We all need to make sure, in whatever safe and productive way possible, that you don't raise another generation of jerks.

When I was younger, much younger, I slept with a guy who one could safely say was blue collar. He worked at various constructions jobs (mostly unskilled). He was hot (muscles, beard, deep voice, big hands) and he was gay, and he was kinky. What more could one ask for? In fact, at a gathering I held when I was sleeping with him off and on, a cultured friend of mine who sold suits to mostly white collar executives met him. He blurted out to me, “You slept with him! Can I touch you?” He meant it jokingly, but I think much was implied in his reaction, much about class, education, sexual orientation, and how that all ties into how we view what is masculine.
 

Where does the term blue collar even come from?
 

The term blue collar was first used in reference to trades jobs in 1924, in an Alden, Iowa newspaper. The phrase stems from the image of manual workers wearing blue denim or chambray shirts as part of their uniforms.
 

Some blue collar workers have uniforms with the name of the business and/or the individual's name embroidered or printed on it.

Historically the popularity of the color blue among manual laborers contrasts with the popularity of white dress shirts worn by people in office environments.

The blue collar/white collar color scheme has socioeconomic connotations, which comes from the British class system, especially as it transmuted because of the Industrial Revolution.

The people who worked in factories were called the working class, and they varied in degrees of respectability, ranging from the skilled laborers who could afford a small house and raise a church-going family (think Archie Bunker types), to unskilled day laborers at the bottom of the social ladder.

These individuals, because of their lack of education, were stereotyped as coarse and ill-mannered, but also as physically strong and big-hearted; perhaps Ralph Kramden in The Honeymooners exemplifies the best and the worst of this image.
 

The people who ran the factories and eventually created the big corporations of the Gilded Age and beyond, combined with the older, genteel professions of teachers and doctors, became the white collar middle and upper middle classes, and at the top of that ladder, the nouveau riche.

This structure pretty much held for a long time in the United States, but once factory jobs moved to China and other places because of globalization, a new working class replaced it, working lower paid service and retail jobs jobs, and also in office jobs, ostensibly white collar, but working mostly as servants to upper middle class and upper class high level professionals like lawyers and corporate executives.
 

Now, how do gay men fit into this social picture? The stereotype of gay men is definitely not the “rough” guy who works with his hands, but the effeminate artsy-fartsy queen who thrives in refined cultural environments, the “sissy.” If you weren't out in that way and consigning yourself to stereotypical gay professions like acting and hairdressing, you conformed to the social structure above, and if you were in the working class, you definitely didn't proclaim your sexual orientation.
 

Thus, in the book Maurice, the aristocrat Maurice is really taking a risk by loving Alec Scudder, a gamekeeper, much below him in social class.

So, what was a gay construction worker or trucker to do?

Hide their true selves, it seems. But note, so many gay porn fantasies involve these blue collar guys in places like truck stops and construction sites, but how much are they the projected fantasies of white collar gay guys who fetishize the conventional masculinity of these straight guys?
 

Tellingly, we saw this projection become dominant very soon after the initial liberation of Stonewall, when the gay clone look involved construction boots, denim, and keys hanging from belts.
 

And of course, one of the Village People guys was a construction worker.
 

Thus, in my case, it was almost a status symbol that I really slept with a real blue collar guy (I also slept with a fireman).

Neither relationship worked out, and it wasn't because of the social gap.

Yet, since the 1990s, when those relationships occurred, some social distinctions have blurred, but not all. Even in the increasingly mainstream LGBTQ community, upper middle class wealthy white educated males have wielded the most power and influence, ostensibly for the good of all in a diverse community, but the dynamic mirrors the class structure of the society as a whole.

The Veda Pierces (the snobbish daughter of Mildred Pierce) who looked down upon dollar days and men who wear uniforms (today what many retail employees have to wear) still exist, but they come from all social classes as the world of cyberspace creates a level playing field for everyone.
 

Yet, the world of Twitter can create identities that don't correspond with one's real life social status, and thus the opposite of the above can occur: an Amazon delivery person can show more class and education and insight than a nouveau riche person, the most powerful man in the world, who embodies the worst stereotypes of the blue collar worker every time he tweets.

Yes, the piss hard on, often called the morning woody, or my favorite, the pee boner. Why does it happen?
 

According to Dr. Joseph Alukal, assistant professor of urology at NYU Langdone Medical Center, "The penis is a very strange organ in terms of its job and the way it traps blood inside it." Thus it is not as if pee is just waiting to emerge or some kind of bladder control issue.

The most medically sound explanation, according to many sources, is that it has something to do with the brain. Certain parts of the brain shut down during REM sleep, including the one that keeps that dick in check.

From a more Freudian perspective, that bossy superego that often informs the social norms we adhere to to function in the waking world isn't keeping that primal id from taking over.

But also, think about this: so much of sex is tied to the brain, and so much of the brain functions like all that complex stuff going on in the background of one's computer.

There's another theory. Again, according to our expert Dr. Alukal, "There's no other place in your body that has to trap blood for an extended period of time. For example, if we took a tourniquet and tied it around your foot for a half hour, we might have some problems afterward. But your penis is expected to trap blood for a half hour or an hour and be fine afterward. This could be part of the programming that reminds the penis, 'This is how you do your job.'"

And we know what that job is, and it's not just making babies. Well, that could be the end result, but much as some guys complain about that supposed pee boner, don't forget it gives them the opportunity to begin the day with a orgasm. Alone or with your partner (and if your partner is a guy, maybe he's got a woody going too). Voila!
 

Why am I writing about this topic today? Now, that's a weird anecdote. I was walking to the office here, and I noticed one of those yellow school buses pulled up a couple of blocks away. It was not a bus full of students, as school was not out yet around here. No, it was one of those buses probably hired to take Cubs fans to a game (yes, that season is upon us) in Chicago).

The bus was empty, the door was open. I heard a gravely male voice, loud and deep (and not young-sounding) proclaim from the driver's seat, “You'll wake up with a piss hard-on.”

Obviously, I don't know the context of this conversation, but I am thinking maybe the person he might have been calling (again, the bus was empty) wasn't getting that morning woody. According to Dr. Alukal, researcher, once middle age hits, morning boners tend to stop as their testosterone levels dip.

The day I don't wake up with one, which for me is a visible sign of our God-given life force in all its myriad manifestations, I will be in Paradise or Heaven or whatever one calls it.

I used to wear loud pajamas with seventies colors that my brother said could “wake the dead,” even through my early twenties. I was used to I guess sleeping chastely, but I did not go completely in that direction, wearing a nightcap. 

I switched to sleeping in sweatpants as I matured in the adult world. I was already wearing them around the house all the time when I came out, but I never made the transition to wearing them out and about except when jogging. I don't know … I just feel like they are too casual for even mundane activities like shopping, and since they are my main sleepwear, I feel like I am going outside in my pajamas (I did that once when I lived in the dorms, but that's another story). 

Now it seems, the boundaries between sleepwear and casual everyday wear are more blurred. I've taught students who wear those flannel lounge pants (which for me are essentially glorified pajama bottoms) to class, and not just those who live in the dormitories. 
 

Thus, given the trend I mentioned above, seeing a guy in sweatpants on the subway or the bus is pretty routine these days, which leads me to my main point: one just doesn't notice the sweatpants. One notices the bulge. And if the guy is really hung, he “freeballs.” The loose-fitting wear allows some motion beneath one can see. 
 

Craigslist missed connections is replete with what I call the bulge gaze, usually quick and furtive, or furtively repetitive, in the gym, on the subway, in the Home Depot. I noticed the bulge in your sweatpants. Dude, you were freeballing when you got up from your seat in the subway. 

And combine the freeballing with the manspread, you've practically got enough vision of the cock to start creaming in your pants or sweatpants. 

I will share my one somewhat, and I say somewhat, erotic experience with sweatpants. I hosted a Halloween party many years ago. I dressed up as Joan Crawford as played  by Faye Dunaway in the Mommie Dearest jogging scene. (I must mention that men only wore sweatpants in the gym, and people, especially women, did not jog in public, in the 1930s.) I was wearing tight gray sweatpants. I slathered some mint julep masque on my face to combine that scene with the infamous wire hangers/forced bathroom cleaning scene. The costume was not a hit. The sweatpants were. 
 

A guest at the party, I think an acquaintance of a friend, was so enamoured of me in those sweatpants, that he pulled me into the bedroom and began feeling me over. He was not attractive to me, and I repelled his advances. I immediately complained to his friend, who basically told him he had to leave. Yes, my guest was drunk. Goodness, this sounds like sexual harassment, but I didn't think of it that way at that time. 

The next week I received in the mail (these were the days before the Internet) I guess what could be called a love letter or love poem. I apparently was so hot in those sweatpants. The sweatpants showed off my perfect ass. I received another letter and once more I complained to the mutual friend. 

Now I am thinking I should be so lucky to get fondled and stalked, at my age, but I must remember the guest was not cute. If it had been one of the other guests, the tall guy with the mustache wearing a tuxedo and harness boots, that would have been another story. 

I must admit since I lost 30 pounds I could probably buy a smaller size in sweatpants and maybe dare to wear them out to the Walgreens. 

Miracles do happen. Even when you are wearing sweatpants.

I enjoyed sex with this guy off and on for some time in the nineties (both “vanilla” and BDSM), and one time when we were making out in his van he began to blow in my ear. The action itself doesn't really get me a woody, but as part of the whole erotic foreplay it definitely added something to the experience as a whole. 

Now, the ear itself doesn't strike me as being particularly erotic, but what it is supposed to do, transmit sounds, can add so much excitement, especially in BDSM sensory play. I used to like (and still do, but I am the “binder,” not the “bindee”) being bound and hooded and hearing the dominant sound of boots walking around the dungeon, For me, the sound of power is the sound of hard-heeled boots, and I've noticed lately that men's boots and shoes usually possess rubber heels to mute the sound. Why? I wonder, when the same does not apply to women's footwear (that's another blog). 

And of course there's dirty talk, which can occur even in more conventional sex scenes. Or doing it with music in the background. It takes great mental concentration and keen listening to try and time your orgasm to the climax of Wagner's Liebestod (I know from experience.) 

Overall, some people experience reality through hearing, some are more visual, some are more tactile. Still, what about more directly physical interactions with the ear itself? 

Blowing in the ear combines both a tactile and a hearing sensation, but then there's also guys who like to nibble on the ear (something my cat does, in her case a sign of affection as well as impatience, play with me, feed me). 
 

Maybe it's getting down to something really primal, the nibbling, but the ear of course features significantly in so many other cultural contexts. 

As a child, I was fascinated by the pointed ears of Spock, and all those elves and fairies sported them as well. Perhaps just changing slightly a feature of the ear was enough to evoke images of otherworldly power and knowledge. (And to set the record straight, Tolkien's elves, regardless of the movie's visualization of them, did not have pointed ears. See Appendix F of The Return of the King.) 
 

And let's not forget the legendary Carol Burnett who would tug on her ear at the end of each show (one time I remember she pulled an earring off while doing so!). It originated as a signal to her grandmother because Carol in her early days at the Gary Moore Show couldn't shout out, “Hey, Nanny, are you watching?” She always knew her beloved “Nanny” was watching her famous granddaughter, and even after Nanny passed, she kept that signal as a way of connecting with that memory. 
 

Cutting off the ear was a punishment in the medieval and early modern periods, especially for offenses regarding religion. For example, in the seventeenth century the Puritan William Prynne was condemned to this punishment for heresy by the Anglican ArchbishopWilliam Laud, interesting, for one might think the other side would want him to hear their version of truth. But perhaps Laud thought it was appropriate because he led the faithful astray because they heard the Puritan's sermons. 
 

Are you still listening? One can hear, but not listen, so often in this frenetic culture where words disappear in cyberspace in a nanosecond. 

Take the time to really listen, and maybe try and remember and share your own unique, erotic ear experiences (but save the earwax stories, ew! I recently experienced an issue with that substance). 

And Bijou Video offers unique “dirty talk” audio CDs from those Old Reliablerough trade guys in the Sexcessories section of our website.

Check them out, along with other auditory delights at BijouWorld.com and BijouGayPorn.com.