Meeting you once. That was enough. I don’t need any more chaos in my life. That’s what a moment with you was. Whoever you are. Was that your real name? Did I tell you my real name. Isn’t that the point?
A community of liars, reinventing themselves for a wet, dark moment under the covers.
That’s what they don’t want you to know. So many lies they tell. They want you to believe we just are like you. We are just like you behind the elegant front door.
The bronze gargoyle.
No women to temper our worst excesses.
Dawn.
Again.
Those yellow, silk satin curtains were bought for me by Jean Paul Gaultier on Nothing Hill the day after the IRA blew up the City of London. They are pretty threadbare at the edges.
I don’t care.
He picked me up at the Market Tavern in Vauxhall. He sent the bar man over with a pint. Paid for. Caught my attention. I had no intention of kissing him. Making love to him. Instead I took him to the crater in the City of London where the Irish Republican Army had blown up the streets.
We took a cab to Notting Hill and bought those yellow silk curtains.
Certain that no one would believe the story. Still very drunk. A pall over my forehead. We sat in Tim’s kitchen so I could, at a later date, prove that we had been there. I sat my god daughter on my lap. My jeans must have stunk of beer and cigarettes and sweat.
I think he was probably into fisting.
I can feel it. You are falling in love with me but I’m not interested. I can’t pretend. I can’t love you back. You may as well back away from the beloved. As you know, there’s a viper beneath the skin. Your weakness disgusts me. Those eyes looking up at me expecting so much more. Those big brown eyes offending me. I imagine pushing you down the stairs.
Lawyers, lovers, movers, electricians, renters, plumbers, real estate agents, judges, baristas.
Visitors: from England. My home town. I think you forget that my home town will always be there. Always. The softer landing. Regardless what you do to me. What you take from me. How you silence me. The months are passing quickly.
If you send me home. My mouth is wide open. A siren. From Whitstable.
Oh, Whitstable. I am coming home.
Leaving behind these savages. I would rather face my demons there.
Savages, blowing up there own people. Blaming the boys. The muslim boys. Demonizing islam.
It’s a drill… wait… no it’s not. There is a third bomb… wait no there isn’t. We’re looking for a dark skinned man… wait… actually two white ones. We need help identifying them… wait we’ve had one of them on a list for years and we know where he lives. Ok, we found them but we killed one… no wait his brother killed him… wait… no he didn’t. We captured the other one after a firefight but he shot himself… wait… he didn’t have a gun.
Savages, without opera. Savages, white and clean. Chained to their guns and their christianity. The lies they tell: the deficit. The heroes they claim. The heroes they abandon.
The gays are picking out their black shirts, their golden hair and musculature.
Being in jail radicalized me. Hanging with the Trans hookers. No longer gay. This queer, with other queers. Behind the women and men of colour, of indeterminate physicality. Liberty leading the people.
There is so much outraged. Outrage! A line has to be drawn. Robby, my darling ally. Now he is Dustin Lance Black‘s boyfriend, well… he had to be jettisoned. The trophy boyfriend.
I really loved him. Like a son.
[youtube=http://youtu.be/e7HJTCvzLXQ]
There he is with the gays (black and white) at the White House. Looking uncomfortable. His hair slicked back. His beautiful flaxen hair.
Meanwhile his ‘husband’ Lance Black, is a grand marshall/special guest star/nazi youth at San Francisco Pride. The same organisation that abandoned Bradley Manning last week. Turned their back on a world hero in favor of an illusionist.
Lance is a man who writes about history rather than participates in it.
A bunch of Iraq gay vets (murderers/terrorists) took it upon themselves to complain and the corporate Pride org buckled.
It was a sad day. A terrible, sad day.
One day films will be made about Bradley Manning and we will wonder, with a degree of homo incredulity, how Lance Black and the organizers of SanFrancisco Pride found themselves on the wrong side of history.
Hairless, blond Lance with his hairless, limp, blond husband.
So the argument rages. Is Bradley manning a hero? It seems that if he is… not many gay people agree. He broke the law they caw!
Well, did he? Whistle blowing (as it turns out) is an honorable, protected act.
Executive Order 13526, Section 1.7 pertaining to Classifications Prohibitions and Limitations clearly states that:
In no case shall information be classified… in order to: conceal violations of law, inefficiency, or administrative error; prevent embarrassment to a person, organization, or agency… or prevent or delay the release of information that does not require protection in the interest of the national security.
Thus, what Bradley Manning did when he disclosed cables that revealed extreme corruption and major breaches of diplomatic goodwill was, in fact, quite honorable, and he deserves protection under the Whistleblower Protection Act.
My friend Robby is part of a homosexual elite. Able to shape and destroy lives.
The bitter and resentful gays turning on their own. They daren’t turn on straight people. Why? They still want to be straight.
Meanwhile a black man comes out and the gay, white elite are thrilled. It’s embarrassing that they have no black friends. It’s embarrassing that they have no black friends on Facebook.
Thank God! A black man, playing basket ball. He’s making it seem so comfortable.
Fuck HRC. Fuck GLAAD.
I am understanding now. Who those gays are. They never wanted to put up their hand and tell the world they were different. I did. They wanted to be teachers pet. I didn’t. They wanted to be perfect. Nope, not me.
Their only act of bravery is telling the world they are gay.
Astonishing. These absurd gay men screaming about how Bradley Manning broke the law. We who were born criminals… born gay, who every time we kissed or made love also broke the law. Would you have suggested abstinence until the laws magically changed? Did we deserve to go to jail for being gay, after all… we knew the consequences? Who do you think broke the law on your behalf to fight police and break windows at Stonewall? Sadly. it turns out, not many gay men. They were hiding in the back of the bar whilst the trannies broke the law. The gays are still hiding in the back of the bar whilst honorable men like Bradley Manning fight important battles against iniquity and injustice. By dissing Manning you merely collude with, support the illegal actions of the US military. Make your choice, but remember those of us who fought on your behalf once upon a time did so without regard for the law. Bradley Manning may or may not have broken laws. Without doubt, his actions helped liberate millions and hastened a US military withdrawal from Iraq. You must honor him.
Let’s face it. It wasn’t gay men fighting the police and breaking windows the day Judy died. The gays were hiding in the back of the bar or running away. Terrified of breaking the law. Terrified. They are still hiding in the back of the bar whilst others do their fighting for them.
One day, there will be men owning up to not wanting to be gay, staying in the closet because… they will say… ‘I’m not like that… look at what the gays have become…’
This week I purged myself of white, elite gay ‘friends’ on Facebook and I wished I knew… what I could do next.
For more about how we are evolving… read this: Steven W. Thrasher’s great piece in Gawker today.
