Those simple balls I cherish!

I am delivering here an excerpt of a text still being written, although well advanced, which I will certainly publish on this site, in the form of a short manifesto dedicated to the masculine and more specifically to its representation through the image of its sex and the commentary made on it. This subject has been at the heart of my life and work for a long time. I approach it with emotion, vigour and conviction because it is of considerable importance to me and, I imagine and hope, to many men. 

Perhaps it will also resonate with the ears of women who are touched by and interested in men, beyond the use they make of them, as is obvious in our warm human relations, especially intersex relations. Happy reading.   

The image in question is not originally a photo, but comes from a short video shot inserted at the opening of a trailer broadcast on the Web to announce my upcoming creation (The amusement parks - Teaser N°2). This image, the source of two reactions that triggered the writing of this text, is a close-up of my testicles, taken alone. By this I mean that I held my penis up to frame and turn this shot. I liked to accentuate the feeling of proper weight, like the hanging purses and the erotic calm that their slow swinging, brought to light, can bring out.

Before embarking completely on the writing of this text, which I know is likely to take me far away, it is extremely important for me to point out that this precision as to the belonging of these testicles on the photo, is not at all humorous and is not there to "provoke" or try to create any low level connivance with the reader. I don't throw myself into my subject in this way either, to try to excel at a clever exercise in style on the subject, something I would vomit above all else and throw without hesitation into the dark hole of the worst literary nonsense that hardly needs my input to spew out stylistic bullshit. So, you who are kind enough to read me, please hear this. In spite of the very certain temptation for many of you, to protect yourselves from a conception which already, without your knowledge, possibly shocks you even if you defend yourselves, this image of my testicles demands to be looked at for what it represents, without invocation of any pretext, whether it is a vegetable, scientific or even especially pornographic one. This tight frame on my purses is there for itself, its aesthetics, its symbolism.

 "What's behind it, what's your point? " I heard about this image once it was posted online. Or, "It's pretty racy." In any case, these remarks or questions came from people whom I hold in the highest esteem for their broadmindedness and intelligence. This is to say how the problem suddenly appeared to me more obvious, more widespread than I imagined and yet how unfortunately fully in line with what I have so often felt in my life without always accepting to hear it. Each time, I remained prostrate for a long time. I thought I could see around me, but I had seen nothing. I thought I knew my surroundings, which had already become so small. I thought that I was clearly understood by those who trusted me to the point of following me in my projects, some of them for many years. Although I certainly did not question this point, I had to admit that there was a clear gap between what I believed and the reality of the level of their adherence to my views, which I had taken to reflect their own conception of things. Suddenly, we were far away. At least, further than I had expected. Perhaps they were thinking the same thing? I deliberately use the feminine, since in all the cases I have experienced or reported, they were women, which is obviously not unimportant in this case. I had to react, otherwise I would have been condemned to feel a loneliness much worse than the one I had become accustomed to, that of silence, that of the feeling one retains within oneself, and that, that loneliness, that confinement with myself because of others, was out of the question for me to accept it. I hadn't been producing my creations for so long, in conditions as difficult as they were ungrateful, only to find myself deprived of my expression by the effect of self-censorship. Yet there had been warning signs, alerts; not only among my relatives, within the companies I empathized with, but also within my heterosexual couples. I will go into more detail later on about the sinuous detours of these precursor symptoms of intolerance.

 Is it inconceivable, then, to wish to claim in this way simply the amiable beauty of one's own purses, the tenderness that one bears in the image of one's own virile intimacy, without sacrificing at least a little somewhere to a sympathetic Gaulishness, to an intellectual pirouette, if only to make up for this "facility" and to ensure the understanding of a majority of readers, spontaneously imagining themselves to be spirits endowed with unbridled tolerance and who should not be disappointed by a violent reversal of the mirror?

 It would have been the macro shot of a female nipple, the case would be uneventful. There are as many "good" as "bad" reasons for this, since the natural acceptance of such an image would take place either under the guidance of heterosexual eroticism, of which we know how much it is based on the reduction of the female body to the state of an object of desire, or as an emblem of a hard-won feminine freedom claiming the enjoyment of being a woman, detached from male desire. But this is not the case. In this case, no nipples whose numerical precision of the photo would bring out the lumpy texture under the caress of a chiaroscuro, no cute clitoris dear to the erotic-library pink litterators or to the women's magazines that want to be witnesses of the air of time.

 No, the image of the day, the one I propose to you, is that of my testicles, portrayed by me, carefully depilated, as I wish to show them, in a soft light, but also in all the fecundating potential that the feeling of their weight can express. I present them to you as I live them intimately, as friends; as I live every part of my body with which I have come a long way. For all are not equal from the point of view of the knowledge that I have of them or the interest that I have in them, even if they are all parts of my body, which remains in my eyes, in its entirety, my unique and therefore more precious possession. I could not, for example, naturally say the same of my back, having to it only a relationship unfortunately and necessarily distant, most often by proxy, when foreign hands have the benevolence to touch, caress or roll the skin to massage and relax it. I could thus detail the multiple and very specific relationships that we are many, many, I imagine and sincerely hope, to maintain towards our limbs and parts of our body. But for now, and as a starting point and foundation for, say, this micro essay, I would stick to "those simple balls I cherish". It's a nice title for a book that this formula, you might say, but which I've really given up for the moment in order to avoid any ambiguity as to the authenticity, sincerity and seriousness of my subject, which it would be all too easy to deride and ruin if I were to give it the side of the game from the outset through stylistic complacency, as I explained earlier. I suspect that, despite these precautions, detractors will not fail to find something to grind to express their "racial hatred" of my subject. I will simply do my best to let them have it entirely their own way and not to give them the slightest incentive to do so. « 

That's it, for now.

To be continued... and to the boys to stop denigrating themselves imbecilically and to start taking care of themselves seriously, media-wise, is understood.