QUEER

Friday, January 22, 2010

QUEER

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns

Queer, pansy, faggot, dip-shit,
Gearbox, fruit, fey, queen, gay,
Fudge-packer, fem-boy, fairy.

The first time I heard the word “faggot” was in Grade 10.
I was standing in line, in the school hallway, waiting to go into a classroom.
The cute blond boy in front of me turned around
And sneered, “Are you a faggot?”
Everyone’s ears perked up.
“What’s that!?” I asked.
“I think you are,” Danny said.
Titters and snide comments all around.

Somehow, I instinctively knew what he meant.
Contempt dripped from his chin.

I’ve always had a thing for blonds.
They drive me wild.
My school was filled with gorgeous, long-haired guys.

That evening, I asked my sister what the word “faggot” meant.
“Where did you hear it?” Carolyn asked me.
I told her the story.
Warmth and compassion poured out of her soul.
My Mom said nothing.
She just kept crocheting.

“Philip is a girl. Philip plays with dolls.”
In Public School, kids used to follow me home,
In little groups, chanting things.
I’d be in tears, every lunch time,
And get a splitting headache.

Now, I think, so what!?
Yeah, I played with dolls.
Wanna make something of it?
But, back then, it was like a secret, shameful vice.

Going to see “Bonnie and Clyde” in 1967.
Being hot for Warren Beatty and wanting to be like Faye Dunaway.
That was a revelation.
It's supposed to be the other way around.
Oh, my God!
Am I a queer?!

Help! I want to be normal.
Queers are sick and horrible and evil and …
You’re headed down a scary, dark tunnel if you’re queer, I thought.
I can’t be that way.

Then I read Christine Jorgensen’s autobiography.
She was the first famous transsexual.
Maybe I should have a sex-change.
Then I can wear glamorous gowns and be normal.
Perhaps I’m really a female trapped in a male’s body.
I fell in with the trans crowd, back in 1972, and was horrified, to be honest.
They were all on Welfare or were prosties.
Stoned on downers, alcoholic, into sickening, rigid sex roles.
That’s not for me, I thought.

No, I’m not a girl.
I’m male because of what’s between my legs.
There are all types of men on this planet.
Maybe gender isn’t that important.
I’m a queer human being.
I can sleep with whomever I want
As long as they’re of age and there’s mutual consent.

I still love dolls.
I own one, right now, as an adult.
She wears a purple and gold gown.
But I never take her out of her plastic box
And she doesn’t even have a name.

“Yes, Danny. I’m a faggot. How about you?
Wanna fool around at my place, after school?
If not, then blow it out your ass, baby.”