— Originally published in Honcho
magazine - June, 1996 —
SOUR GRAPE SODA
by Lefty Boylan (aka Michael Kirwan)
At some point, unrecognized by me, the whole
homo ethic turned ugly. Maybe I was involved in one of my
bliss-filled (or scary-psycho) relationships, maybe I was in one of
my rare "weave-a-career-out-of-thin-air" modes, but most likely I
was in a gin haze, and the change was so insidious I just never
noticed it. I hate to beat the dinosaur trail again, especially as
my memories may have transmogrified, but I'm certain that when I
became aware of "gay culture," it was about caring, equality,
wanting to take credit for our meaningful contributions to society,
and other shit of that nature. It was a rallying call to all the
hard-on grabbin' guys and those other mysterious no-name haunters of
the dark to feel safe and proud. We, the outcasts circling the
fringes of "their" world, with our furtive glances and obscene
lip-licking. Back when the only criteria necessary was a willingness
to enter the shadows, to bare the soul as well as the loins. Back
when those stolen moments of ecstasy were the sole compensation for
the superficial friendships, the distant fractured family
connections, the hiding, the lying, the lying, and the lying.
Buffeted by the social tides, we bought the only definitions
available to us, all of them insulting. But we didn't stop. We
sought out the public restrooms, the secluded woods, that tract of
highway frequented by hitchhikers eager to escape their own false
lives. When we met a fellow "invert," we were kind, sympathetic,
interested, and glad. The sailors, truckers, and bikers that have
become the icons of our mythology were just other men in a position
to meet as many strangers as their travels provided. Strangers
who could tell no one what transpired in the seedy motels around the
globe, simply because in most cases there was no one close enough to
tell. Each meeting was a consecration. Each embrace, smell, taste,
sensation to be savored. Each encounter relished because the next
might be months or even years away. We knew who we were finally in
those rough, sticky, dreamlike experiences. These events were so
extremely intense because each was in its way a baptism, we were
renamed, renewed, and branded as
faggots.
Well, here we are in the middle of 1996. All that work, all the
suffering and anguish, and for what? Go to the clubs and witness the
fruits of our labors. Go ahead, look at them. A bunch of cliquish,
self-styled muscle creeps steeped in designer drugs and pathetic
arrogance. Men who sneer and mock other cock-suckers who don't
measure up to their "standards." Fags who are incapable of sincere
emotion, original thought, or decent judgment. So beautiful and yet
so empty. So callous to all but themselves and their clones. They
wear their selfishness and disdain as proudly as their tattoos and
sinewy buffed skins. Their lovers are as much accessories as their
nipple rings.
Sour grapes? Too over-the-hill to compete? Maybe I've just seen too
much sickness and death in the last ten years. I don't know. But
where is the creativity, the vivacity, the originality and sense of
brotherhood? I've watched as little "nobody" homos have been
dismissed, snubbed and scorned by the godlike players in the gay
scene, and it hurts to see them slapped down by their idols. Does a
little compassion and patience really take so much effort? Things
have opened up so much; life is so much easier for us despite the
plague; let's do some bonding and building now. Our strength isn't
measured by bench-pressing; it's measured by our capacity to love
and understand.
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