Homophobia kills
Homophobia breeds indifference. Critics have pointed out a shared theme between Netflix’s uber-popular Dahmer series, highlighting the exploits of one of America’s most famous gay serial killers, and the new season of American Horror Stories: NYC. Both shows explore the tragic fact that once homosexuality is introduced into the equation, people, especially heteros in positions of authority, be it government or the police, immediately lose interest, tune out, cease to pay attention, drift away. It’s like they abruptly pivot rather than face the matter head on, without shame of embarrassment. Hence, a murderer like Dahmer is able to continue preying on queer POC because the police want nothing to do with his lifestyle choice. The merest hint of butt sex repels them. It’s as if the LGBTQ2SIA+ existence is so repulsive they don’t care that a serial killer is running amok as long as he’s only taking out other queers.
As an aggressively homosexual progressive, someone who revels in all things gay, who fellates and sodomizes with abandon, I find this posture among cis-white heteronomative males annoying. I accept that they look down on me and mine, that we’re considered the equivalent of gutter crust. Our lives are of no import to them. Let some mentally challenged individual stalk us in our dens of iniquity, blandish us with girl drinks, hoist alluring moues, flatter us, take us home, feed us dinner, spike our drinks, disrobe us, repeatedly plunge a knife into our supine bodies, then flip us over and have at our not-so-taut buttocks, bugger our lifeless carcass. After, anal lust sated, we are to be dismembered and eaten (no mention of appropriate libation, no winking nod to a film classic featuring a similar character).
Far-right white nationalists are perfectly fine with this unpleasant scenario. Because ‘what happens to gays stays with gays’ seems to be the reasoning. It’s like we expect this manner of treatment, so they’re not the least concerned if that’s what we’re dealt. We’re left to handle the problem on our own. ‘It’s just a queer thing,’ they snigger as yet another punctured corpse lays cooling on a mortuary slab. ‘Nothing to do with regular citizens. We’re NHIs (No Human Involved) to the cops.
How to shake up the complacent, then? How to insist that, though queer, we’re also human, we have a like number of chromosomes. If we’re stabbed, we bleed as normal heteros do. Indeed, thanks to the cocktail of chemicals I imbibe everyday to ward off various STDs ever lurking in my system, ready to produce lesions or glandular eruptions should I miss a single day (the letters I get from pharmaceutical company reps praising my endurance would reach the ceiling if stacked), I would likely bleed out faster than most, my blood thinner regimen crucial to preventing the COVID-19! Sars-2 novel coronavirus vaccine from sparking clots in an organ or my brain.
So, yes, gays are people too. We belong to the same genus. Do we tend towards flamboyance? Sure. Are we camp as a row of tents, as the popular expression has it? Absolutely. Does the prospect of sticking our tongues into another’s nether orifice give us pause? Not for a moment. Like so many in the LGBTQ2SIA+ community, I thirst for analingus. There’s nothing I cherish more than planting my face betwixt a pair of ripe ass melons and diving in to lick rim. Nothing says queer as Quentin Crisp to me than that singular act. Obviously, smoking pole is a mainstay of the gay play. Having same slammed into one’s gaping anus also constitutes a critical feature of the pursuit. But indulging in bum dining really separates us from the lower orders. Would you find a gibbon or tasselled wobbegong doing likewise? I fear not. Queer humans are unique in this regard, this insatiable need to experiment, to fully explore the uses to which a fecal sluiceway can be put, driving us to incredible discoveries.
That’s today’s diary, guys.
Forever yours,
Tristan K. Pugwash