Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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In Which Our Intrepid Blogger Comes Across Something Unexpected in a Gay Porn Mag

 Reader alert: Explicit gay sex

 

My friend hands me the open magazine.

“Steve, you have got to see this.”

I've never much been one for written erotica, but when I see the title of the story, my jaw drops.

The Cult of the Horned God.

So: our hero, a studly young anthropologist fresh out of grad school, has gone to rural France to study contemporary survivals of the Cult of the Horned God.

He's been staying in a farmhouse owned by two brothers: one blonde and one dark. Don't worry, you'll find something, they keep telling him, but the entire summer has gone by and he has turned up absolutely nothing. Watching the brothers swim naked at the beach, he can't decide which one is hotter, but really, what does it matter? he thinks: Just another disappointed hope.

On his last night in France, the brothers say: Hey, it's your last night: come with us. We have something we want to show you.

They take him to a cave. (We would have to call it "Les Deux Frères," I suppose.) When he sees the paintings on the walls, our hero realizes that this is a major discovery, heretofore unknown to the scholarly world. As they go further in, he becomes increasingly excited.

Finally they arrive at the cave's deepest chamber. There three surprises await him.

Surprise the First: a huge, and beautifully rendered, painting of the Antlered Himself.

Surprise the Second: the cavern is filled with hot, naked young guys that he recognizes from the village.

Surprise the Third: he has stumbled onto a Men's Cult of the Horned God that has been going on continuously since the Stone Age.

When at home, do as the homos do. Our hero and his hosts strip off and join the others.

One of the brothers—I can't remember which one, the dark or the light—dons the antlers, and the ritual begins.

The Horned stands, fully erect, before His painted likeness. One by one, the men kneel before Him and take His thick, meaty cock in their mouths: fealty.

(Cocks in gay porn are pretty much always "thick" and "meaty." Call it a literary formula.)

Finally, it's our hero's turn. He approaches, gives the god the blow-job of His life, and—unlike any of the other men—manages to bring Him to an explosive climax with the aid of some, ah, postillionage, to use the term of art.

Good old gay American know-how.

You came to study the Cult of the Horned God, the brothers tell him afterward, and now you've found it. Welcome to the Club.

The End.

No, I can't remember which magazine it was. (Blue Boy, maybe?) But I swear to you, I am not making this up.

By the Horns I swear it.

 

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Tagged in: Horned God Horned One
Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

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