Monday, October 26, 2009

Phase, My Ass.

I have been pretty fortunate in what's known as my "coming out." Sometimes this process can take several years (in fact, I think that's pretty typical, from my own experience, and from stalking my gays ;)), and often goes in stages, i.e. rage, denial, tolerance, acceptance, etc. This is in NO way a typical sequence of events, just a general representation. Some homos, upon leaping gracefully from their walk-in closet, are immediately cut off by their redneck parents, and are thereafter subject to their everlasting rage and are permanently ostracized. Other queerbags (such as myself) have families that learn by osmosis (because my mother has a big mouth and thought it was novel, for Christ's sake), and it went like this: I sat down for Thanksgiving dinner one year, and everybody had big smiles on their faces. Being a naturally curious individual, I inquired, "Um, what?" and they burst out laughing and started to tease me about whether or not I used whipped dairy products in the bedroom with my girlfriend. I shit you not. It was definitely good-natured teasing, mind you, so I've been insanely lucky in that regard.

The one thing that chaps my big gay ass, however, is people who are generally tolerant of "deviant" human behavior (and it cracks me up that people consider homosexuality to be "deviant". Bitch, you ain't seen nothin' yet.) and whom I believe are genuinely tolerant of homosexuals, "But", they quip, "in YOUR case....I don't know if you're tooootally gay."

Gold stars, feel free to disregard this information, as it will most likely not speak to you. Oh, and for those not familiar with the phrase "gold star", it refers to a lesbian who has only had intercourse with other women, and never in her life with a man. I think my grade of star hovers somewhere around aluminum, but whatever. I consider it invaluable experience. H'anyway, just in case any of you persons were unsure about my sexuality, I'm now engaging exclusively in physical and emotional liaisons with those of the same sex as myself. To the layperson: I bed women. And buy them pretty things. Unless they like boy stuff. Then I buy them Legos and shit. I'm not saying that could NEVER change, but I'm pretty damn self aware, and find it extremely unlikely that I will ever swing back around. To you skeptical bastards who insist otherwise, allow me to paint you a metaphor:

You are an ice cream lover. You have been since you hit puberty. You think ice cream is the bee's knees, man, and you eat it as often as you are able to coax that carton of ice cream into bed...I mean into a bowl on your kitchen table. All your life, however, you have been exposed EXCLUSIVELY to vanilla ice cream. Despite the monotony and lack of...flavor overload, if you catch my drift, it's fine, you still eat ice cream, because you think it's delightful and you'd rather shave off your own eyelids with a rusty Bic than give it up altogether. Then, one day, someone introduces you to mocha chip rocky fuckin' road with crack sprinkles. It's the closest thing to heaven you'll ever be (in my case, being an atheist, quite literally I suppose). Now, you could go back to vanilla, it's still waiting there, cartons and cartons and cartons of it. You could go back...but why the motherfuck would you?

I did not detest sex with men. I know some lesbians who'd sooner douse their own genitals in liquid nitrogen than allow a man to get within five feet of her junk, but it was not that way with me. It's just that...something was missing. And it turns out that something was a vagina.

I love women. The way they sound, taste, talk, the things they read, the way they walk, the sound of a woman moaning. Men do all those things, but they're muted somehow, as though a gray veil of mediocrity coats my vision when I attempt to consider them romantically. I could try to claw my way through the gray, or I could (forgive me)...taste the rainbow ;).

And boys, if you're still skeptical: know how much you like tits? Yea. Me too. Hope that helps.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

This is Time That Could Be Spent Feeding the Homeless, You Fat Christian Fuck.

H'okay, so, I used to go to church. Born n' raised catholic, attended catholic educational institutions until I was 14, intimidated by nuns and leered at by clergy (though I lack a phallus, and was therefore spared the wandering hands of the holy ghost, if you will). I used to actually parTICIPATE in this bullshit. Something tells me this is NOT what Jesus had in mind.

I'm not gonna embark on a 20 minute rant, because they are not worthy of my overly-flowery diction, or TIME, for that fucking matter. Couple of main points:

1. There is no cure for gay. It's pretty much ingrained. A guy I know, we call him J Kitt, strutted the fuck out of the womb in prada heels, ostrich feathers, belting Rent and waving a glittery rainbow flag. You could lobotomize, electro-shock, fuckin' Chinese water torture that motherfucker till he goes blind, but he'll still be groping for cock when you let him the fuck out. No camps, programs, handshakes from Jesus can cure that kinda hunger. Your "rehabilitated" gays are for sure blowing each other in the confessional when your back's turned. Trust me.

2. I don't fuck on your altar, stay the FUCK away from my pride parade.

There's this one bitch who's always at the Philly gay events, and she wears this unforgivable ankle-length denim skirt EVERY time. She screams shit like, "Homosexuality is a SIN!!" in this atrociously nasal falsetto, like a dumbass stripper voice, and every time I really wanna say, "So's your skirt, you fucking sand-vagged cunt." That's it, just made up my mind. I'm gonna.