A few weeks ago, I guess, Newsweek declared we have our first Gay President, who is incidentally about as gay as President Clinton, our first declared Black president, was black. However – being pro-gay marriage, cosmopolitan, tall and slender does not a Homosexual make. In fact, there are fairly specific criteria for being gay – most importantly, an amorous connection or attraction to members of the same sex (Michelle’s arms may be cut but she is all Lady). Gay is not an act. It isn’t who you shag or how. Gay is about who you are attracted to. Right?
But – there is so often more to the story. Gay is misunderstood. Gay is envisioned by some (stand up, Mr Santorum) as strictly a sexual act: Santorum’s arguments against gays in the military didn’t seem to allow the possibility of legitimate amorous partnerships, of ‘love’ and ‘companionship’, but instead were focused entirely on gayness as being defined by the act of sex. (That logic would also say that a little boy ain’t straight until he has achieved his first dry teenage hump with some bedraggled girl at the back of a party somewhere).
But if sexuality is defined by who you shag as much as who you desire, where does that leave me and my band of (un)happy buggerees? For me to say – “I was sexually abused countless times over a span of fifteen years” means I had countless sexual experiences with a guy. I carry around the secret shame that even though we all understand that I didn’t choose to be buggered, the fact that I was leaves me tinged with pink. To admit that it happened is to somehow call into question my own straightness… much as the weaker inmate after his first fun time in the prison shower MUST return to his cell feeling a little less of a man. He has been a party, unwilling or otherwise, to guy-on-guy sex.
Now – there is nothing wrong with being gay. There is nothing wrong with being 5’7”. But just as it would bug me if people thought I was 5’7” and wore lifts, there is always this nagging, irrational voice inside my head when I talk about my child-buggery that wants to give a disclaimer; that senses that other people (especially other straight, manly men, blissfully living in the traditional straight-man’s world where sodomy is something only clumsily, vaguely understood) see that tinge of pink, and feel that my Knowledge of another man makes me less… manly.
And I don’t know what to make of that. It is what it is. I have no answer. I like the Ladies a LOT. I like all their soft, curvy smoothness and gentleness the more, because I have known the opposite. I understand my gay friends (and women!) that like angles, and hard, and muscle. That is lovely for them. For me it is nothing. And maybe it makes me even straighter to have experienced and rejected the opposite. But the mere fact that I know that angles and straightness and stubble exist sexually – leaves me back where I began. Separated by this sentence of life-long knowledge. And shamed. And misunderstood.
I’m 6’, dammit!
A little clarification: in this blog, the fact that I am discussing pederasty does not mean I have any desire to go all specific and bring out a dolly to show you where the nasty man touched me. When I discuss buggery it is always in a GENERAL child-fiddling sense, not the specific bums&willies sense, nor in the two-happily-consenting-adult-Sodomites sense. I also hope all who read this can share a baseline understanding that a homosexual man is no more likely to chase after little boys than a heterosexual man is likely to chase after little girls.