Le Café de L’Enfer was a Hell-themed café in Paris’ red light district.
Carleton Carpenter and Debbie Reynolds, “Abba Dabba Honeymoon”. This bothers me so much but I can’t quite place why.
I’m furious.
I’m so furious, passing to the left, casually bantering with my friends, all straight men, about tits. We’re in the park, standing in the empty fountain, canoodling the bronze Naiad, whose perky cold breasts and grapefruit ass don’t mind the cold.
And I’m furious because I can’t swim with these heterosexual fish nor crawl with the gay lizards – I’m the mythical missing link waddling along on my pathetic stumps out of the muddy puddle.
And I’m furious at Cass for getting me lost between Tolerance and Acceptance.
And I’m so furious: I’m a bee, ready to bend over, shoot my stinger dripping with venom into your offensive flesh. And I have cause for offense. You men-boys who prance shirtless, taunting me with your nipples and your untouchable thighs and treasure trails and cocks swinging in chaos in your mesh shorts. You horrible men who make me feel like a predator for wanting your unattainable perfect asses. The Hope Diamond would be easier to steal.
And I’m furious at myself for being too timid to try football in middle school.
And I’m furious that four score and seven years after Frank Kameny’s birth I still get jealous when I see men kiss women on the street, because the uninvited guest in the dingy crooked back stairwells of my amygdala whispers to me that I won’t be able to love anyone like they do.
And I’m furious that I’m more than three times as likely to die alone, although the comforting haze of Alzheimer’s Disease will soften the blow. I’ve seen with my own eyes and felt with my own hands and mouth what happens to skin when middle age strikes and it terrifies me. I finish masturbating and run to the one full-length mirror in the house and I stare at my chest and stomach and force myself to memorize what my body looks like and how my skin feels, so smooth and consistent all over. It’s soft and tight and I pinch myself and consider crying because I know I will never ever look as good as I do right now. I imagine myself with a round, hard belly and a Viagra prescription and an insecure sad dumb young mouth hanging off the tip of my smelly cock.
And I’m furious at the horserace of gay culture. I watch everyone run around the track while the trainers nurse my broken leg, flicking the needle a few times.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Antonio Vivaldi
Dixit Dominus in D Major
Movement II: Donec Ponam
