I’m Not Your Gal Pal, Ya Dumb Bitch

You know, one of the things that disgusts me the most about gay culture isn’t just how most gay guys treat me but, rather, how some of these unbelievably stupid women interact with me.  It boggles the mind, but it is a fact that most people, especially the immature, will approach homosexuals in absolutely every conceivable way, EXCEPT as if we’re actual people.  This nonsense has plagued me most of my life.  I thought for sure that, at some point, I would be approached with a modicum of respect now that I’m an adult.  But I was woefully unprepared for the onslaught of idiocy that was in store.

One of the first memories I have of this rampant douche-baggery is a precocious interaction I had with a voice teacher from my church.  She was a vocal performance major at an eastern university and she and her husband moved to Ohio from the east coast.  One day, after a lesson, she announced that she was going to be my “fag hag” because “that’s what all gay guys have”.  I believe I was in my early teens at the time.

Um…what?  I think I blocked it out for a few years.  I’m serious, I think I psychologically disassociated due to the trauma.  How, precisely, did this woman think I was going to react?  Oh sure toots, let’s go out clubbing this Friday.  But don’t forget, my bedtime is 8:30, so let’s not do too much meth.  But we can still get some poppers and light sticks to dance with.  I mean was she some kind of weird lady pedophile?

Cut to me trying to get along at the prestigious eastern university I went to on scholarship.  I was not out.  I was only nineteen years old for Christ’s sake but, apparently, if you’re not out by that point, then you’re worse than Hitler to the academic community.  Looking back I can easily recollect my roommates, friends, and even the faculty messing with me, even though it was patently obvious that some of them were closeted gaywads too.  The one roommate who conspicuously kept bringing up male on male anilingus had an unbelievably obnoxious girlfriend.  So no one gave him a hard time, despite his frequent forays into how another guy’s anus would taste.  Like I said, his girlfriend was simply awful.  They showed up one day and she demanded that I ballroom dance with her, right there in our cramped dorm room.  In his defense, my roommate did protest that perhaps she was bothering me, but not too strongly.  We wouldn’t want her to break up with him, of course.  His cover gone, he wouldn’t be free to taunt me with his tongue-to-rectum musings.

Another roommate, who seemed pretty straight, was always fucking his girlfriend who flew in from Colorado from time to time.  But, very weirdly, he was the most hard on me of all, and ultimately we couldn’t be friends.  I mean he was really vicious; he made very serious attempts to get me to come out.  The following year, he and the anilingus guy were roommates again.  Once they came to visit me, to taunt me some more I guess.  I don’t get it.  The ferocity of it all.  If I were a loser for staying closeted, so what?  They both had much to be desired about their personalities too.

But, anyway, back to the women.  The summer after my freshman year I made a friend in the film studies program who was interested in ballroom dancing with me.  She was terrible.  She wouldn’t let me lead, even after I patiently explained to her that it won’t work unless we share our centers of gravity.  She seemed intelligent and kindhearted though.  One night she kept bringing up one of her professors who always wore tight black leather pants.  She kept hinting around about how he was so into leather, these were the ONLY pants he wore, and he and his boyfriend were just SO into leather.  Oops, I guess I forgot; being a fag automatically means I’m hot for nasty leather fetish sex.  MY MISTAKE.  And wearing the same pair of leather pants every day sounds very reasonable and hygienic.  Good for him.

But I can forgive other nineteen- and twenty-year-olds–they were just mixed up kids too, and at least they were sort of trying to help.  But the faculty?  There is the possibility that at least three members, one instructor and two deans of the fucking school I was in, actively punished me for not being out.  Either that, or they were just unusually hateful people which, in New York City, wasn’t all that uncommon.  Regardless, I couldn’t take it anymore; I didn’t have the skills to cope with the mounting pressure both from within and without.  I made it through freshman year plus the entire summer session, however I stopped being able to get out of bed and go to classes once my first sophomore semester started.  And when I finally realized I had to leave school, I got nothing but anger from the deans who, instead of showing me any shred of compassion, acted like I was doing something wrong by having the audacity to become sick with severe depression.  People in their position surely would have encountered this type of thing before.  But the so-called “Dean of Students” basically bitched me out from the cross, lamenting about how “hard” she tried to help me.  Help me?  All she did was answer a few questions I had about the dance major one time.

Naturally, it only got worse once I returned to Ohio and did come out:

  • The lady at the mall who kept referring to how she had never employed a “mens” before (pronounced MYINz with a slight lisp at the end), how she was willing to hire a mens–a mens this, and a mens that.  I was like, what in the FUCK is this lunatic talking about?  It wasn’t until later that I learned “mens” is hill-shit-speak for gay dude.  Have you heard of this?  Is this a thing?  I mean I’m just so very GRATEFUL to this cunt for being WILLING to bestow the honor of a part time job at Kirkland’s on a mere “mens”.  Wow, what a saint.
  • My new boss at a posh skincare boutique who, after going through all the trouble to hire and train me for months, announced that, “oh yeah, didn’t you know?  The reason we hired you was because we wanted a gay guy around to entertain us.”  (We?  The entire staff was in on this decision?)  I thought I was moving up in the world.  After my devastating break with higher education and the promising professional future it represented, I thought I possibly had a future in skincare.  The one district manager did officially inform me that I could immediately be promoted to Assistant Store Manager if I were willing to move to Florida.  I could not entertain such a move; I was too sick with depression anyway.  But to her credit and mine, I did receive this offer as an openly gay employee.
  • Another boss who announced, in front of a customer, that gay guys like me must have giftwrapping in our genes.  I stood at the cash wrap of the store tying up a lady’s parcel and tried to “wrap” my mind around what was happening.  I guess I was getting a compliment?  I wasn’t aware that my genome held information this specific.  Perhaps the ability to tie a bow is located on the same chromosome as my compulsion to vogue, and my natural desire to tie up other gay guys before engaging in BDSM.  After all, My Favorite Things is obviously my most beloved song:  “brown paper packages tied up with string…”  Yes, that must be it.
  • And dozens of other incidents, each one more horrific than the last.  Everything came to a head at my first white-collar position at a community/rec center.  My boss there clearly hired me to be a buddy.  She actually told me to my face, several months in, that “we’re going to be friends and have girl talk and do stuff together after work and on the weekends”.  Looking back, I could tell something was up because she kept asking me at the interview if I were sure I was interested.  She “ordered” me to participate in a charity fun run on my own time on a Saturday.  When I protested, she firmly insisted.  Fortunately, I was wise enough to simply ignore this request, as I knew full well that it was illegal.  But, once again, I was at a loss for words when she suddenly started on a spiel comparing “bling” from our “boyfriends” (I was single at the time).  She went on and on about a bracelet I wore, that I bought for myself, and explained to me how her boyfriend of thirteen years (still hadn’t proposed) accidentally gave her the same exact diamond ring two years in a row for their anniversary.  Anyway, I hated this bitch for a long time.  But now I understand that she must have been suffering too; she could have easily weighed over 300 pounds, had a clueless boyfriend, and was desperate enough to hire new friends instead of making them the proper way.

Well, one lives and learns.  No one said life was going to be easy.  I know that’s a corny cliché, but every once in a while one encounters a cliché that’s actually helpful.  “Welcome to life!” a competent counselor once told me.  What wise words these are for me.  If life were easy and fun, surviving it wouldn’t be such a joyous triumph.

And then there was the psychologist who counseled me that I wasn’t born gay, and that those gays who promoted this myth were simply “not willing to face their issues with their fathers”.  Funny how she neglected to mention that she was a bible wack job on the phone.  After she applied electrodes to my scalp, to determine how depressed I was, I could tell she was well on her way to recommending “aversion therapy”.  You know, where they hook up your junk to electrodes, for the purpose of shocking you when you start getting hard, while you watch gay porn?  She insisted that becoming straight was a simple matter of cultivating sexual feelings for women by taking them out on a date to Shoney’s (Um…Shoney’s?  SHONEY’S??  Perhaps she was a close relation of the Kirkland’s lady.  Oh wait, I’m sorry, I believe the correct term is “kin”.).  Anyway, I found it very interesting that this woman was not married, wasn’t dating anyone, wore a very short haircut, spent the majority of our “counseling” sessions blabbing about her issues with her mother, and explained how she turned down guys who propositioned her for sex.  I mean, we were pals, right?  Earning a hundred dollars per hour to get free counseling from your psychology client is reasonable, right?  RIGHT??

I don’t believe in something as silly as hell.  I believe in something much, much worse.  And whatever Karma has in store for this individual is beyond any one of us to comprehend.  I don’t even need to find out what happens to her.  I am willing to release any remaining Karmic bondage, and assume that It will take care of the rest.  If you’re a messed up kid trying to survive the transition to adulthood, Karma won’t mind.  But by the time you’ve reached your forties, fifties, and beyond?  And you’re still pulling this crap?  They say Karma’s a bitch.  I say It is a boomerang, born out of the natural consequence of the existence of living things.  There’s nothing supernatural about it.

So I’ve been kicked around, and kicked around some more, by many a worthless cunt.  But I’m no longer a silent doormat.  Despite every imaginable effort by these bitches to use and abuse me, I have survived.  And now, by the grace of my infinite will to live, I am even starting to notice good people of both sexes who deserve to be friends with me.  Like the lady who shows me kindness and respect every time we see each other in the coffee shop, or the office lady at my psychiatrist’s who (amazing I know) actually performs her job with professionalism and genuine kindness.  But I’m not out of the woods yet.  I can still sense a certain amount of pity and/or cluelessness from some of my current friends, who still aren’t capable of handling the gay issue as a whole.  The closeted female minister who baptized me, who still wants to be theater-going buddies.  The married guys, who become gayer and gayer the more they drink, at the beer enthusiast events I go to.  The closeted lesbian psychos to which my straight friends are married.  It just goes on and on and on…  But this cycle of nonsense is halted in me, and that’s all that matters.

Nope, I’m nobody’s gal pal, or girlfriend, anymore.  Do I look like a woman?  My hairy ball sack, beard, and muscles say otherwise.  Sorry to disappoint the sad female losers of this world, but I’m not the Will to your Grace, nor the fruit to your salad, nor the fag to your hag (Really?  Self-esteem people, come on!).  This is the stuff of which stereotypes are made.  Is there some sort of confusion as to my status as a human life?  I have always and only treated others with way too much caring and compassion because I thought the Golden Rule applied in all situations.  It does not.  It only works with people who already have internalized it as a preexisting personal value.  For everyone else, it’s just another nuisance to be tossed aside in favor of their true agenda:  the cheap thrill they get from using and mindfucking the vulnerable.  {>^<V}

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