My friend Thomas S. Roche, one of the most talented and prolific erotica writers around, wrote about his contribution to the latest collection edited by Maxim Jakubowski, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Volume 8:
“Matching Skirt and Kneepads” is one of those special stories about apparent homosexuals having sex with apparent homosexuals of the opposite sex, a thing once upon a time called “bisexuality” with some frequency, and at other times called “not bisexuality!” in voices both strident and calm, and called many much less polite things, in heated debate and bitter backstabbing shit-talking… leaving shell craters and lingering pockets of mustard gas across the Klein grid.
My fellow survivors of late-80s Santa Cruz and early-to-mid-90s San Francisco will perhaps remember these arguments, in the days while another non-abstract threat was taking far too many lives from the communities for which this debate most mattered.
Now people I know tend to call themselves “queer,” and do whatever the fuck they want. As a heterosexual who’s always been irritated by the very concept of consensus reality, I would be a little bitch if I didn’t applaud that with somewhat terrifying fanaticism. “Queer” is a powerful world because nobody quite agrees on what it means — except the people who feel it describes them. People couldn’t always seem to agree on what a “bisexual” was either (still can’t!) but “queer” by its very nature, and due to its pedigree as an insult, doesn’t ask for consensus.
That said, I so very much appreciate it when people of any gender do things in bed (or, in this case, in a photo booth at Folsom Street) that piss other people off, or perhaps more accurately that they’re not “supposed” to do. That, quite possibly, is my principle turn-on. What can I say? I’m a bad man.
I believe that “Kneepads” is very much an homage to the days when it felt radical to me to imply in my work that there were more than just a few choices here. If you read it, I hope it will inspire you to have sex with someone you’re not supposed to have sex with, even if it’s only in the sleazy motel bed that is your brainpan.