Italian right-wing homosexual writer Nino Spirlì doesn’t like the new fashion of “emasculating” the males, because he likes them, but not like this. Piece translated in exclusive for F&FW.
Then, they found out the Linetti Gel to fix their hair and make them shine. Then, the barbers started dying black (red, I’d say) sideburns and eyebrows of the most mature and vain.
During the seventies the children of the flowers used to smell like dead goats in the Sahara. A dim light of hope for the resurrection of the old fashioned male…
But the nineties started spraying unisex perfumes over all the bodies, without exclusion: from the worker to the lawyer, from the truck driver to the priest, passing through the architect, the surgeon, the patient laid on the couch of the operating theatre. Even the dead and the gravedigger smelled of perfume. A phoen of perfume, a monsoon of perfume, a hurricane of perfume began to hit all the male gender of the human species.
Damned, at last, that 2.0, that made the Male sink into the abyss of laxity with all his testosterone. An army of hetero-faggots hit the planet.
Depilated till the inside of the buttocks, you can’t find a hair on the body of the males not even if you pay it in gold. The remove everything: eyebrows, hair of the nose, of the ears, beard, moustache, armpit’s hair, the ones on the chest, on the shoulders, the back, the buttocks, the pubis, the thighs, and legs and toe-fingers. They courageously arrive at the scrotus. If they could they would act on the intestinal villi.
They use make up on skin spots and on the shadows under the eyes. They know more than an old slut about rouge and foundation. Many dare the “coloured lip balm”.
The cyborg put coloured contact lens on the iris and transform themselves, in a flash, into horrid human muppets.
I saw nails varnished red and black, earrings and fans even more exaggerated than mine. And they swear they are not fags. Fags who, by the way, show off hair on the face and on the chest as if they were wearing a fur of silver minks and foxes died by electric shock.
How do people change, I thought last night, sat under the verandah of a well known café in the via Marina of Reggio Calabria. Once upon a time men used to talk about “hair” (meant as pussy et. sim.), nowadays they exchange the addresses of the esthetic centres where they can make their personal superfluous be eradicated with warm wax.
A shame as long as the Boot (Italy Ed.)!
As long, I’d say, as the fantasy of some cunning fellow who’s “fagotising” them in entire platoons to be able to make a profit from it.
And, so, the last stunt: silk and lace lingerie for men.
I, if it comes to me one who under the jeans displays a culotte, will kick his ass until the depilated hair grow back again! Even less (so to anticipate some turds who were about to write it)am I ready to wear it myself, the lingerie frou-frou.
The last rubbish of the fashion must be discouraged now, before it reaches the ears of the youngest, who could memorize it in their DNA.
Women control their husbands, soldiers do it with their comrades, university students teach it to the prof.s and the prof.s turn down even the best students, if down under they hide a frivolitè lace or even only a more prudish St. Gallen.
Delation, in these cases, saves a life. Human.
To myself. At this point, with iron underpants…