SAMPLE: Archer Magazine issue 2 - Winter 2014

ISSUE TWO CONTENTS

Editor’s note

7

Amy Middleton

The joy of polyamory

8

Anne Hunter

Sex addiction

14

Krissy Kneen

Homosexuality and Aboriginal culture

20

Steven Lindsay Ross

Shared House

26

Charlie Brophy

Evolution and homosexuality

36

John Pickrell

Deafness and sex

44

Edan Chapman

Sex workers’ rights

50

Nu Tran

For the love of hair

56

Leila Koren

Sexuality and asylum seekers

72

Alexandra Cashion

78 Kate Wood Asexuality

Young Hearts

84

Greta Punch

Grief and sex

94

Greg Leech

Gender and sex-drive

100

Bridget Jane with Erin Stutchbury

STORY TITLE // AUTHOR

BY MEN FOR MANKIND

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Lqd.com.au

ISSUE TWO CONTENTS

Editor’s note

7

Amy Middleton

The joy of polyamory

8

Anne Hunter

Sex addiction

14

Krissy Kneen

Homosexuality and Aboriginal culture

20

Steven Lindsay Ross

Shared House

26

Charlie Brophy

Evolution and homosexuality

36

John Pickrell

Deafness and sex

44

Edan Chapman

Sex workers’ rights

50

Nu Tran

For the love of hair

56

Leila Koren

Sexuality and asylum seekers

72

Alexandra Cashion

78 Kate Wood Asexuality

Young Hearts

84

Greta Punch

Grief and sex

94

Greg Leech

Gender and sex-drive

100

Bridget Jane with Erin Stutchbury

R E V E O WH R E V E E R E H R W E V E WHAT

TALK IT OUT

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EDITOR’S NOTE // AMY MIDDLETON

CASH SAVAGE

EDITOR’S NOTE Sexuality is endlessly fascinating and infinitely diverse. Hence, Archer.

AS EDITOR OF Archer, I talk to people about sex a lot, and it’s increasingly clear to me that we all have very different relationships to desire. Depending on who you are, desire can be colourful or complicated; public or private; static or ever-shifting. As a kid, for example, I had inherent shame around my sexual urges. I remember tearfully confessing to my mum the urge to masturbate, entirely convinced it was wrong. I thought sexuality was something to be ashamed of. (I’ve obviously come a long way.)

I have questioned where this kid-shame might have come from. My parents were liberal thinkers: agnostic, and unmarried, with a diverse group of friends.

In retrospect, I think my developing mind was processing signals from the society around me that the search for pleasure is a minefield of rules and laws, of hidden secrets and hushed words. Generally speaking, our society still teaches us that desire isn’t something to be proud of.

This attitude is insidious. You can see it in billboards that posit women as objects for consumption.

You can hear it in the giggle of daytime television hosts when they interview a sex therapist.

On a national level, this attitude is signposted by the same-sex marriage debate. Our government’s strict policy that marriage is only on offer if you’re attracted to the opposite sex suggests that Australia as a country does not support diversity in desire.

Through our nation’s laws, you are going to be disadvantaged, you will actually have less rights, if

your approach to desire differs from the majority. To kids, this is a warning: if your sex doesn’t look like the pictures in Where Did I Come From?, it may be wrong.

Archer is the antithesis of this attitude. We know sexuality is complex. We reckon that’s OK. We see pleasure as healthy and good, and desire as worth exploring, so long as no-one is being hurt or compromised. Checking out our feelings about desire is part of figuring out who we are.

Some people love sex, and spend most days doing it, or thinking about doing it (sex addiction, pg 14). Some like it more often than others (sex drive, pg 100) and some avoid it altogether (asexuality, pg 78). Some have multiple partners (polyamory, pg 8), while some are starting all over again (grief and sex, pg 94).

In this issue, we also look at the misconceptions our society teaches about this diversity: the stigma that exists around sex workers (pg 50); the ignorance surrounding our treatment of LGBTI asylum seekers (pg 72); and the myth that homosexuality is a choice, which our article on the evolutionary purpose for samesex partnerships (pp 36) goes a long way to debunking.

Thanks for joining us for another edition of Archer.

We love discussion, so get in touch over email or social media and let us know your thoughts.

We’re big on talking to people. It’s our whole MO. Amy Middleton – Founding editor

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STEVEN LINDSAY ROSS

A LORE UNTO THEMSELVES There is no single Aboriginal culture, argues Steven Lindsay Ross, and those who say there are no Aboriginal gays are not looking hard enough.

DAVID MAURICE SMITH

ABORIGINAL AND GAY // STEVEN LINDSAY ROSS

The Big Bang Theory tells us that after the start of the universe, there was an amorphous cloud of atoms and particles.

The catalyst for the coalescing of the gases and dust were very small differences in that early cosmic soup. If it wasn’t for these differences and mutations, the universe would never have formed.

I find enormous comfort in this: that nature thrives on difference.

When you’re Aboriginal, you’re always reminded of your difference – from the sideways glance of a shop assistant to the excitable look of school children when you’re delivering a Welcome to Country.

When you’re Aboriginal and gay, there are layers of difference and this can be very challenging for some people.

Since the emergence of the marriage equality debate, there have been a number of squeaky conservative cogs that provide fodder for the media, agree with the coalition government. These voices shudder at the thought of anything that challenges their notion of ‘normal’.

I’m thinking of the opinions of folks such as Anthony Mundine, whose antihomosexuality views became widespread following a Facebook outburst late last year.

Not only is anti-homosexual rhetoric cruel and demeaning, it is also increasingly out of step with mainstream Australia. In the case of Mundine, it was also out of step with Aboriginal and

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Torres Strait Islander (ATSI) leaders and thinkers, as well as the wider community.

Of course, diversity of thought exists in the ATSI community.

And to that end, many indigenous LGBTI people experience homophobia and transphobia in their own lives. Unfortunately, the perpetrators are often their own people or family.

I

WAS ABOUT FIVE years old, I reckon. My father, a Wiradjuri man, and I were getting out of our old family Valiant. We lived in what was called ‘the new mission’ in Macauley Street in Deniliquin, New South Wales. All the blacks had been moved to Deniliquin from Moonacullah Mission some 20 years earlier.

The charming houses built for the Moonacullah Aborigines were fibro and erected on the fringes of town, not far from the sewerage plant. A northerly breeze carried the smell of raw faeces into our street, and if there was an operational issue with the works, the town’s sludge would bubble up into our bathrooms.

It wasn’t exactly a welcoming experience of assimilation.

Deniliquin was, and still is, a pretty town on the Edward River (Koletch, in our Wamba Wamba language). Ever since I can

remember, the sign coming into town announced that there were 8000 people living there.

On this particular summer day, after my father had been looking after me (I sit in the corner of the TAB while he bets on the horses), we arrived back in Macauley Street to discover he’d left the house keys inside. He ordered me to climb through the window to open the door, but I refused. His response was to verbally abuse me and, for the first time in my life, I was called a ‘poofter’. I didn’t know what this word meant, but, considering the tone of its delivery, I knew it couldn’t be a good thing.

Over the following years I heard this word more, and figured out its meaning. Given my prepubescent romance with another boy, I soon knew I was this thing.

This was the prism through which I saw my early sexualit y. In my community, I got a sense that homosexuality was not a good thing within our mobs. And, of course, like all homophobia and all bigotry, these attitudes were designed to de-humanise me, to marginalise me and to keep me down.

I

N 1978, MY mother left my father and moved to Sydney with my sister and me. Mum moved in some pretty funky and

STELIOS PAPADAKIS

“When you’re Aboriginal, you’re always reminded of your difference” arty circles and we were often at bohemian parties in Balmain. My sister and I would hide under my mother’s skirt while mysterious white people drank and danced and ate exotic food.

The host of these parties was known as Aunty Sharon, a redhead with striking features and a beaklike nose, who spoke beautifully and loved hugging us kids. She was my mother’s boss and she lived in Waterview Street, Balmain, with her girlfriend.

My mother never had to explain any of this to me and I lapped up the experience, as any curious child would. I loved our visits to Aunty Sharon, and the look and smell of her house. My favourite thing was to fall asleep cuddling her lifesized Wonder Woman cushion.

In hindsight, these were formative years that helped to empower my sexual identity and sense of self-worth. My mother never sheltered us from these influences.

She knew I was gay all my life,

STEVEN LINDSAY ROSS is a proud Wamba Wamba man from Deniliquin, New South Wales. Steven has worked in water management, Indigenous rights, crime prevention and the arts, and has attended two United Nations meetings on Indigenous issues.

Follow him on Twitter: @IndigSteve

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SHARED HOUSE // CHARLIE BROPHY

S H A R e d At 18 years old, photographer Charlie Brophy captured the youthful characters and playful antics of her first forays into sharehouse living.

PHOTOS BY CHARLIE BROPHY

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H O U S E

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SHARED HOUSE // CHARLIE BROPHY

THERE WAS A sense of youthful innocence in most of the sharehouses I entered from the age of 18. Each housemate enthusiastically explored new possibilities and ‘first times’, and I became obsessed with that freedom and lack of delegation, even though it was accompanied by smoky, rundown rooms and never-ending piles of washing.

When the realisation clicked that perhaps our elders were right when they told us that growing up happens in the blink of an eye, I was determined to prolong the desire to climb trees ahead of making teas. It became my mission to document the adventures and shenanigans of sharehouse living through photography.

Those closest to me, and interesting people I meet, are always my main photographic subjects. Sexuality, ambiguity, home and youth are themes I explore through this series – themes we could all identify with at some stage of our lives.

A few years on, I have watched the characters in my photographs develop.

Physical attributes such as facial hair and new tattoos are the obvious changes, but the real shifts lie in the mentality of these individuals.

They are still as playful as my lens captured at the age of 18, but instead of killing time, they’re pursuing their own journeys.

Kids are constantly asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” This question serves to remind us of the power to dream big, no matter what size we are.

charlie

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SHARED HOUSE // CHARLIE BROPHY

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THE SCIENCE OF HOMOSEXUALITY // JOHN PICKRELL

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WHY YOUR GENES ARE JUST SO GAY Despite a variety of theories on the biology of homosexuality, evidence suggests it is an integral part of human evolution.

JOHN PICKRELL

x3 MARIA BONOFIGLIO

THE SCIENCE OF HOMOSEXUALITY // JOHN PICKRELL

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Since the realisation that I was attracted to men in my early adolescence, I’ve never had any doubt that the desire was entirely innate and immutable.

I’ve never been attracted to women, and I couldn’t imagine feeling any other way.

Not everybody attracted to the same sex feels this way, however. A minority of gay men, and – according to psychologists, such as Lisa Diamond at the University of Utah – certainly many gay women, feel that their sexual orientation is something more fluid and malleable; something that can change, can be shaped by experiences, and is intensified by attachment.

Over the past two decades, there have been many studies that together reveal a strong biological component to being gay (I use the term ‘biological’ instead of genetic because, although the trait is innate, it is not explained by genes alone).

Others suggest that homosexuality serves a useful evolutionary purpose – more on that later. The overall picture of sexual orientation is complex and different factors may be at play in different people.

I have friends, for example, who are identical twins: they possess the same genes and had the same upbringing, but only one of them is gay. There may be a significant genetic component to being gay, but it’s not the whole picture, and is unlikely to be reduced to anything as simple as a single gene. There is an argument that the search for a ‘gay gene’ would be bad for the gay rights movement, because it could lead to parents aborting ‘gay’ foetuses. In fact, I believe the search for the biological basis for being gay is essential if we are to understand the basic nature of our humanity.

Unfortunately, at least for the moment, most of the studies looking into the genetics of homosexuality are about men, not women. There could be an element of sexism to the bias of this research, but it also could be that it’s more difficult to reduce female same-sex attraction to a simple number of factors. Some studies suggest that male same-sex attraction is about 40 per cent genetic, while the genetic component of female same-sex attraction is perhaps 25 per cent.

W

HATEVER THE BASIS for homosexuality, we know it is hard-wired into our bodies and not purely psychological. The fi rst study to fi nd structural difference between the brains of gay men and straight men was published in 1991 by researchers including American neuroscientist Simon LeVay, who has since gone on to write a series of books on the biology of sexual orientation.

In 2008, a larger study from the Stockholm Brain Institute in Sweden scanned the brains of 90 people and found that although the gay men and straight women tended to have symmetrical brains, lesbians and straight men tended to have asymmetrical brains, with left hemispheres that were significantly smaller than right ones. These results built on earlier studies that seemed to show that some gay men and straight

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DEAFNESS AND SEX | EDAN CHAPMAN

44

| ARCHER

Out of the darkness Although Edan hears no sound, and his sight is decreasing by the day, sex is one arena in which he remains on a level playing field.

EDAN CHAPMAN

DAPHNE NG

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45

DEAFNESS AND SEX // EDAN CHAPMAN

I HAVE NEVER HEARD AN ORGASM. This isn’t exactly one of the highest items on my bucket list. Still, it does creep into my thoughts – usually when I’m in the middle of the act – and I wonder if sound really does enhance the experience.

I wonder a lot of things. I’m 30 and I have been completely Deaf since birth. (The capital D signifies a person who identifies as culturally Deaf, as opposed to someone who is medically deaf and continues to function in the hearing world.)

I am also slowly losing my peripheral vision. Right now, I’m legally blind and I use my cane to get around.

I wonder about my validity as a person. I do not consider deafness a disability. Going blind, to me, is a different story.

The reason for this mentality is simple – it’s about communication.

As a Deaf man I am ‘different’, but I can still understand, and be understood. No matter how absurd the subject, there are always ways to mime, write, draw and laugh. I have cues. When I think about what life will be like when my vision’s gone, all I can think is, ‘I’m fucked.’

One thing that will not be affected by my failing senses, however, is sex.

In the blackness of the bedroom, bias seems to vanish. It almost becomes a sensory deprivation

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experience for me until I touch the first smooth curve of skin. In darkness, I am completely blind. This, combined with my massage experience and my sense of touch and smell, can make the experience of foreplay and sexual intercourse quite overwhelming. This is especially true when it’s the first time with someone. Interestingly, it is that very first touch that locks it all in for me. I use my sense of smell to tell me where to kiss, and the black nothingness turns into the shape of a face.

Perhaps it is the absence of one and a half (almost two) of the five senses that heightens my remaining ones, elevating my own pleasure to hitherto unimagined realms? That would be cool, but I’m not arrogant enough to expect that I am the creme de orgasmee; the modern Bacchus crossed with Don Juan reborn.

It isn’t something you can really compare to other experiences. In sex, everyone is unique. There are the starfishes, the frantics, the zonked-out zen masters and the five-second-per-positioners. Lights on, lights off, streetlights, moonlight – the honest truth is that when I’m fucking, I’m no more or less than the next person. That really does give me enormous mental relief.

In today’s technologically driven world, where our sense of

touch is reduced to pawing a tablet screen or banging a keyboard, this sense of equality may be the reason people are addicted to sex. It may also be the reason people crave it so desperately.

When computers supposed ly validate our own selfworth, it’s no wonder we go out and get smashed in the hopes of letting our clothes and our guards down, and doing what our bodies are screaming at us to do: to be intimate, to become part of a whole, to give and receive comfort.

T

HE DEAF COMMUNITY has quite a lot in common with sexually diverse communities. We face discrimination every day for things out of our control, and we have decisions made on our behalf that are irrelevant or outdated. This is slowly changing for the better, but prejudice tends to snake its way through generations, and this is something that won’t change easily.

Despite this, meeting people has not been a huge challenge for me. Like the LGBTI community, many Deaf people prefer the comfort of their own sub-culture, and tend to stick with each other. I’ve never subscribed to that concept – I mix with everyone. People are too interesting. If I am willing to give a person a smile and some time, we

“When I’m fucking, I’m no more or less than the next person. That really does give me enormous mental relief”

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