the pretense of escape: sex with the electrician; vodka martinis; learning a new program and a new scripting language, like it matters; writing all day in a weeny little online journal as if I were a real writer; and contemplating my demise, accidental or otherwise, as if I were a real writer.  Just a few of my favorite escapes which, by the way, are not escapes at all.  They don't take me away.  They don't make 'it' go away.  They don't change anything at all—but my perception of me. 

One woman (for clarity, let's call her Crydyke) is secretly in love with her best friend (shall we say, Shydyke), and one night twenty years ago Shydyke lays back on a couch and places her head in Crydyke's lap and, looking up says, "I wish you were a man."  Nothing happened except that Crydyke was significantly nonplussed by the comment—until bedtime when Shydyke initiated sex, passionate and all night long, according to Crydyke.  Since then, they have never mentioned the encounter—now twenty years.  The story was retold by Rex Booth on his web 'radio' broadcast today, from a note sent to him by Crydyke responding to the show's topic, best-friends who become lovers.  Rex and Crydyke both agreed that Shydyke was out of line saying, "I wish you were a man." 

 now, let me understand this.  Shydyke, who was more brave than Crydyke, is being put-down because of Shydyke's unfortunate choice of words in acknowledging the attraction between them.  At least Shydyke spoke.  And though she waited until the lights were out, still, she reached out and touched. 

I guess I am always rooting for the under dog.  No, worse than that, if the under dog is male, I try to marry the guy.  But, in this case, I will have to be more sincere.  I would guess that twenty years ago, one woman saying to another, "I wish you were a guy," would only briefly precede something like the sex scene(s) in Desert Hearts.  Today's equivalent might be, (in a seductive Lauren Bacall-deep voice)"Hey.  You wanna fuck?"  Personally, I prefer the sublety of the politically incorrect version. 

And, poooor Shydyke... continued.  I bet she would have dearly loved to say whatever it is Crydyke would have approved of;

"I'm in love with you,"

or,

"I can't take my eyes off of you,"

or,

"Whenever I'm with you.. the humidity!"

or,

"I'm going to say it right out loud:  You make me wet!  Even though one of the reasons we're best friends is 'cuz we're both too scared to say such things; and no matter that you hide the love you feel for me like you're ashamed of it; and ignoring your contentment with our coolly formal friendship—I am, nonetheless, going to talk to your toes and listen to your breasts, and breathe the warm air off the surface of your skin." 

Well, maybe not the last one—a tad too purple. 

I am just like Shydyke; scared to fucking death, and like her, I maintain appearances quite well.  Sometimes, even I am surprised by how much terror lurks in me, deep down.  I might well have said the male-to-male equivalent of Shydyke's remark thirty years ago.  Then, saying to my best friend, David, "I wish you were a girl," would have sounded just as stupid and indelicate as Shydyke's remark.  But if you came close and listened very carefully, you would have heard an eloquence capturing the love I had to give, and the fear that made me hide, and the injuredness of a soul that misunderstood—just a bit. 

And that's exactly what I said. 

 the emergence from hiding will never be painless, nor should we shrink from our duty to expose and dismantle the hiding places.  But we, as Gay men and womyn, are well advised to take great care in the way we perform these good works and sometimes militant activities.  Let us be very sure, before attacking any hiding place, and before giving ourselves to feverishly wrecking the edifices and monstrosities of our oppression, that no one is harmed who stays hiding there within. 

 george Stephanopoulos is disarmingly attractive, diminutive, adorable.  I would love to tie him to the wall, and make him cry.  Then, as I am nearby dozing, spent from vigorously attacking his several orifices, he would unexpectedly seek to rouse me, desiring a continuation of my attentions, and his subtle noises there against the wall would wake me.  Just before he coyly turns away, I would catch the look of mischief in his eyes, and he'd glance down to where it really counts.  The sincerest form of flattery is not being imitated by you, but being invited by you to make you cry.  Again. 

Several years ago in Washington, after speaking at a meeting of a professional association of gay journalists, Stephanopoulos was asked a very pointed question by a member of the otherwise doting group; "Can you defend the choice of certain public figures, known to both you and I—especially those in the supposedly pro-gay Clinton Administration—who in private are known to be gay and claim to be out, but continue to publicly deny it? And should they be 'outed'?"  It, really, was a rhetorical question, and if it had been directed at a lesser politician, might have been construed as a threat.  But George—raising outbursts of approval from the queens, all glowering at the questioner—replied that it was the individual's decision, and that that person should be allowed to choose when and where they come out. 

I wrestle with my ambivalence; young men are dead because they believed being gay was a terrible thing, and if a poster-boy like George had come out and announced he was gay—if he is—that would have done a hell of a lot toward saving lives and restoring dignity.  But when I think of George being forcefully outed against his will.. that image doesn't look like it would help at all.  I can hate him for being beautiful.  I can hate him for being beautiful, and on top of the world.  But I can't hate him for being scared, like me.  And I hate to admit that he's right, but the value of coming out is in the free will choice to do it.  If being gay were the same as being beautiful, then ripping off his clothes in the street to prove it would be brutal. 

And I no longer like the image of him tied to the wall.  Now I want to cover him, and untie him; I want to make it right, and give him back his dignity.  But his fear of me, and his hurt look, says I can't.  And now I want to cry. 

 ocasionally, I have encountered an opportunity to be a villain, and in a world that sometimes seems to have only two possibilities—villain or victim—becoming the villain was hard to resist.  Sometimes, I didn't.  Now I know; there is all the difference in the world between the two—yet absolutely no advantage to being the villain.  The place I want to go is not either of those, but entirely away from that bi-polar view.  I want to go to where it really is all OK; where I don't look at the young electrician in my apartment as a potential bed-mate, or hide from his engaging friendliness by focusing exclusively on his physical features—I only do that because it hurts to feel how badly I want a friend.  It hurts a lot. 

There is a lie that circulates among the victims, and it helps them survive the world as they know it.  It gives them an artificial hope, and something for which to live.  The lie says that the way out of misery is to become an inflicter of it—a villain.  But it is indeed a lie, a mere pretense of escape leading nowhere.  No matter all the rage that seethes and spills and poisons everything in my life, I will not let it take me there. 

This The Gay Diary Ring site owned      by joe burgwinkel.                   [ < | ? | L | > ]

updated