Homophilia

Homophilia

Two tall, gallant gay men hold hands as they saunter down Waterman Avenue. The collars of their brown leather jackets cock to the angle of their jaw lines which jut from their necks like glacial ice. Cashmere scarves blow about their aquiline faces as their stove-pipe piston legs pump forward in synchronicity through rows of short heterosexual people with donut waistlines.

I love to watch beautiful gay men and women in their tight jeans and salon fashioned hair freshly trimmed and shining as they politely dodge the pasty, over hairy straight herd in cheap t-shirts or polyester suits. The straight dullards squint at the gays from beneath Neanderthal brows, lids heavy with curiosity and envy. “If I looked like that” a straight man without a neck sneers, “I’d find some action big time.” “What a terrible waste, on all fronts.” sighs a neglected, thin-lipped straight woman as she adjusts a chaffing bra strap.

From the gay men’s perspective, the hetero-herd of multi-shaded, slithering human flesh must look like an electric multi-colored rope rug, but they continue walking tall, smiling kindly with unabashed graciousness at the heterosexually horny pygmies who appear to be gaining strength by rubbing against each other.

The bumpy-butted crowd, clutching faux designer bags, seems on the brink of panic as they weave down the street in search of a mate with which to procreate.

I want to follow the gay men to their home. I crave beauty. A vision of fresh flowers, Adagio for Strings, shitake mushrooms marinating in a balsamic dressing. I desperately long to press my face into layers of Egyptian cotton bedding and goose down, sip a hearty burgundy by candlelight below an original David Hockney, suppress my ugly heterosexual propensities.

I lose track of the Adonis’s, and am left alone with the straight masses. We are caught up together at rush hour, heading towards a suburbia of chain-link fences, plastic flower arrangements and canned soup. The mob slows in front of a Dunkin Donuts. Two broad shouldered gay men are in line, thumbing through the new definitive biography of Jean Genet. They are carrying a Whole Foods grocery bag. I inhale the warm bread and fresh dill as another member of my hetero cheetos-at-midnight set, waddles to the counter to take their order.

Back on the street, prematurely dark with daylight savings, the pulsing bodies under the bobbing hetero-heads slow to an evening pace. They now appear as nondescript shadows floating through the neon glow of the Thayer Street pubs. Their straight-jacket brains have been lulled into an alpha state as they sit at outside tables and stuff melted cheese objects into their mouths.

Two movie star handsome gay men are sitting at a corner table. I sit at the bar behind them. Their features are chiseled white stone under moonlight. Two pixie coiffed women, one carrying a cake, sing out “Happy Birthday!” and sit with the men. Four handsome faces glow around a candled cake. The women lean into each other like two pieces of a sectional sofa. Wine glasses click. I am close enough to breath in a heady mix of candle smoke and musk. I settle onto my bar stool, comforted.

I hear a pig-grunt-cough from across the bar. A thick skinned puffy-eyed Pluto in a football shirt winks for me to join him. There are mirrors where his eyeballs should be and they reflect the tiny garter snake erection tugging at his crotch. A couple of his drooling buddies, damp hairy wrists wrapped around their spilling beer glasses, salute me as they perform grinding hip rotations in sync.

I quickly pay my bar tab and move back onto the street. Again, as always, I head home alone.

To be continued……………….

ve been straight for 56 years and I will always be straight because there isn’t anything I can do about it, but I have recently considered expanding my libido choices. Now that the recession is in full swing, it wouldn’t hurt if I became bi-sexual in order to network in a more lucrative way. As a middle aged woman, sleeping my way to the top of the straight world is now impossible, but in the Lesbian community, my twat is still considered desirable.

I don’t want you to think that I am only interested in forwarding my career and social status. I admire the gay community and have always been envious of their parades, great bars and dance clubs, cute dogs and apartments, recipes and solidarity. Gay people tend to be creative outsiders who do not march to the drum of dumb-dumbs. As a straight person, I am surrounded with thick necked, football obsessed meatheads, PTA soccer moms, and pseudo intellectuals and artists who sit around their framed poster apartments over-intellectualizing about their world philosophy. They write a lot of bad poetry and spend most of their energy jerking off or feigning orgasm with their drab conclave partners.

There are no straight pride parades because straight people aren’t proud of being straight. I’m tired of being on the losing team, the sexual mandate of yester-year, which now, due to overpopulation, is dangerous for the planet. I feel no connection to my straight constituents because until recently I hadn’t had sex in four years, and even now I am only having sex about once every three months. Being that it’s straight sex, it doesn’t seem to count, especially since the man I am sleeping with can’t support me.

I have been hanging out in gay bars lately, trying to jumpstart a latent homosexual tendency that might catapult my life into overdrive. There I sit, straight, bored and boring, dulled down by my lack of horniness for innovative booty fare. Yes. The gay men love me and support me, because we share an obsession with penises and cabaret, but I feel like Lesbians are my lost sisters. They could lead me towards independence and true prosperity, away from torch singing self destruction ala Judy Garland.

There is a glitch. Like most straight women, I have been programmed to consider my body repulsive and drippy unless I am airbrushed. The dark cavern under my skirt is still suspect, even in the 21st Century, of being the Black Hole of Calcutta or worse, a sacred love canal leading to large child support payments. I’m stuck with it. Even if I had the money for a sex change operation, it wouldn’t work because I would want to sleep with straight men not gay men, and they wouldn’t have me. Then again, I might want to sleep with Lesbians and they wouldn’t have me either. What kind of career plan is that??

Note: Lesbian. The term is horrifying, isn’t it? “Gay” sounds less foreboding. Why do Lesbians have to be called Lesbians and Dikes, and gay men aren’t called “Buttbians” or “Dicks”? Is it a sexist thing? I suppose it doesn’t matter because if I became a Lesbian as a straight woman I would then be considered “bi”. If I could convince a gay man to sleep with me, I would be a “Tri.” From there, the numbers get too big to crunch. Mate swapping, orgies, gang rape. Let’s keep it simple:

If I became a “Lesbian” I would lose a lot of my gay male friends and they support my cabaret performances but the Lesbians are not going to help me get anywhere if they do not see potential for a flesh fest. I can’t go “both ways” because there is a great divide between Lesbians and Gay Men- an undercurrent of hostility, in Providence. A Lesbian friend: “Those assholes think they own the city. All that dress up Diva shit.” A gay friend: “Those dikes have no sense of humor. They’re not in drag, they are a drag.” At the risk of losing the thrust of this piece, no pun intended, what gives? Maybe they are each offended by the other’s choice, as much as some straight people are offended by both Lesbians and Gays, or straight people, like me, who are offended by straight people.

Can’t we all just get along, for my sake? I am considering Lesbianism and Gayness and Bi-ness and Tri-ness and group masturbation. I want to be a member of every group, every parade, every fund-raiser, every gallery opening, every bar and restaurant and night-club in the universe .I want each and every sexual orientation to believe that I am a member of their tribe, a proponent of their lifestyle. I am the one to call when an opportunity presents itself.

Why hedge my bets? Times are hard and getting harder. To stay “on top”, I intend to fuck anything that moves.

Photo: Laurel and Miss Kitty (First Lady of Providence?)

Laurel Casey

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