My mama believes gay people are born than way (wait ) so one can’t afford to get in vitro from a sperm bank. Kid could be gay. Yah she as open-minded as that.
I have been called “super straight”. I am not saying am gay and people are not buying it because damn that would hurt. I can’t imagine the psychological trauma of hitting on someone while they are wondering why the straight lady is hitting on them. Everyone thinking I want to play some sort of prank… candid camera anyone?
Still i want to be gay, specifically a gay man. Of course thats why I am the poster child for #SuperStraight Maybe I grew up thinking men got the best of everything. They had all the power, a girl or a woman had to follow what the men said even when it was all kinds of stupid. A man could berate his wife or daughter for hours and there was nothing another woman in the area could do about it. A man could take your right to say no and you would have no right to be right because it was a woman’s word against a man’s. Worst is if the man was a husband a father or a
holy man as a woman what chance had you. Your only designation was strong-head (if you stood your ground) or a slut (if you continued blabbing that your rights were savaged). In those circumstances no one would stand with you, the men want to show their strength, moral and otherwise and the women cannot afford to fight the men. You will lose honey. Most have been in those circumstances. They compartmentalized pretended it didn’t happen, a woman must learn to not feel the pain to pretend it didn’t happen. Fighting back, even if you win will gain you nothing beyond contempt from both genders oddly especially from the women.
So maybe I would like to be a gay man. Tall, dark, handsome. Strong, physically (dreamboat Navy Seal types… you know what a I’m talking about) with character and oneness of mind. Not so that I can defend the rights of women or gay people, No! There are enough activists out there. This is personal, I want to beat the living crap out of somebody. Smash a head in with my fists. No knives, no guns just my two hands and maybe my feet. Beat back the helplessness and the violent shadows… The terror that fate has another trip down another rabbit hole that am barely ready for.
You maybe think I need therapy. You probably are right. But why exorcise the anger when I could use it, why cure the pain when it can be fuel. You want some sappy story about how love changes people but I’m at that point where laying a good beating on somebody would be cathartic and I have been around long enough to see love tearing lives apart. Why leave it to the abstract? confrontation