Fearless on my breath...

I didn't understand the question!

Ace of Spades, Heterosexual and Wingnut Extraordinaire, seems to have some...issues with teh gay sex:

Not that I’m saying homosexuality is incompatible with masculinity, of course. Consenting biweekly to having one’s duodenum battered with the manic hydraulic fury of a tricked-out V-12 jackhammer manned by an epileptic Con-Ed worker with an ancestral oath of vengeance against asphalt would, I think, tend to butch one up, at least as regards one’s pain threshold.

Note I didn't say he had a problem with gay sex, or hated it, rather he has issues with it. One of those issues being that he's spending way too much time thinking about exactly what's involved in it. I mean I haven't seen many slash writers go into that kind of detail.

Sadly, this isn't even the first time he's flung this particular bit of verbal poo:

“You want dudes to shank you up your manpooters, fine. But you don’t have to be a 12 year old girl about it, do you? Quite frankly, I’d imagine that frequently getting dorked up the drop-pipe would, due to the pain and general unpleasantness of the experience, tend to instill one with a certain amount of quiet, manfully steely resolve, like a toughened soldier waving off anaesthesia even though he’s got a bit chunk of shrapnel in his gut, only it’s even worse than that, because it turns out that shrapnel is really a great big cock shredding his duodenum with the quavering manic intensity of a palsied ConEd worker with a tricked-out V8 jackhammer and and an ancestral vow of vengeance against ashphalt.”

Fascinating, hmm? What's even more interesting, though is that he seems to have an equal repugnance for girlie bits, and interactions therein:

"Best friend gay -- okay, I can see that one going either way; one of my best buds is a homo. Turned off by c****lingus? Eh, a lot of guys don't dig that. Who the hell knows what's going on down there. It's like H.R. Geiger giving up ink and canvas to work in the avant-garde medium of Play-Doh and bacon."

What, we're forced to wonder, is left for Ace who shivers in fear of the jackhammer of love but dares not enter the bacon-y depths of a woman's flower? Perhaps he's forced to turn to a melon warmed in the microwave? Or the old tried and true Dust Buster with corner attachment?