How to do the wrong thing right
OK, beeyotches, any of you DILFs know what time it is currently? “Sure, Howard! Why, it’s queer-power time — time now for us all to sparkle and circulate!” Correctamundo, bois! Everybody, scootch up a little closer to the front… closer, forward, more… that’s it. And let’s kick off the top of Howard Hour by first acknowledging our beautiful auditorium’s 600-pound drag queen gyrating directly ’neath the disco ball behind me — y’all can see her, yes? The girl nobody wants to be caught making eye contact with? Too ashamed for not remembering who she famously is? I’ll give you a hint: Her initials are LGBTQIA — a show of hands, anyone? Who among us can Uncle Howie call upon to translate for the rest of you blow-up dolls exactly what LGBTQIA even stands for… Just off the glittering tops of your tiaras… anybody? Dontcha gimme that, “Girl, wha?” rhinestone-studded ’tude. Hurry, somebody, fuckin’ H-U-R-R-Y! Nobody? It ain’t so easy wielding queer-power now, is it? We’d be hard-pressed to find more flagrant proof that Gayville — with all her abbreviations, jive pseudonyms, double-entendres and acronyms — had finally hit a saturation point. Time’s up; No. 2 pencils down. The correct answer is: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual Transgender Queer (or Questioning) Intersex and Asexual (or Ally).
And, yet, still you wonder why you all find yourselves sweating stickily here in attendance at this uber-dumb summer camp refresher course on what it means to be gay lately? For those of you just now joining us, this is Gayville 102 — everyone seeking Gayville 101, please exit the auditorium and shoot yourselves now. For those few of you not already packin’ a concealed firearm of his/her own, one will be loaned to you at the lunchatorium entrance, where you may enjoy a complemintary last meal of your choice. Unfortunately, I’ve just received word however that the pavlova dessert option has been eighty-sixed. How is it even possible to run out of meringue? Did chickens suddenly stop laying eggs? Ah, the mysteries of the universe. Nonetheless, a lavender/rosehip crème brulee (always a fine, final-meal flourish!) is being offered as a substitute, after which BBCs will be provided as a special sendoff palate cleanser to those of you desiring to rapturously exit this vicious Earth (which left you so irretrievably behind) with a trigger-pull smile of pure-slut happiness on your faces, any scintilla of a chaste, former dignity that still remained, be damned! And, please, we do ask you remember always to be considerate of our staff on your way out: The less mess you make, the sooner they get home to their families. And for those of you seeking asylum requests, a cordial F/U shall be granted. Just come on up over here and step around the curtain, please, anyone requiring immediate assistance.
Our sincerest apologies that we, sadly, could not help you today. Gayville 101 was, as of last semester, canceled. Permanently, yes, due to either lack of interest and/or familiarity overkill — we don’t know which. Possibly a double-ennui combo, even. A case study is currently underway, the conclusive results of which shall be posted following the closeout of our 2019 summer series program; thus, anyone who should require a pistol to be provided to them gratis… well, here we’ve arrived back to our circle-of-life starting point. Those of you closest to me, near the front of the stage, if you wouldn’t mind standing to better allow our defunct 101s to pass and let’s do all give ’em a big, proud round of applause for effort — one year late and another day duller, they’ll soon be no more! Excellent. Fabulous. Kisses.
Look up at the screen here behind me. Recognize anything? No? You should — it’s the online profile of your trick from last night (or this morning, if you wanna get technical). You remember him. The one that showed up two hours late, asked you cover his Uber fare, needed an outlet to charge his phone, smelled like a tourniquet and asked if you if anybody was hiding in the closet — remember him now? Now, don’t y’all go all Mulan on me — this ain’t our first date. I’ve not only heard your farts, I smelled ’em, too. Uh huh. Sweeter than berries! I’ll help you, class. Howard will guide you through morass of this larded text and show you how to read again— 21st century-style.
“First, let me say I’m not like the other guys here. I always get straight to the point. What you see is what you get.”
Well, it all sure sounds forthcoming and innocent, our mystery trick’s first three sentences. Well, duh! Why’d you sign up for this symposium in the first place? Here’s the translation: “First, let me say I’m exactly like these other guys here, only sketchier, even, if you can believe that.” (Oddly, I can.) “I always get straight to the point, in that I always request my transportation fee to be reimbursed upon arrival, nor shall I produce any receipt to back up my rather steep remuneration claim — listen, slick, do you want my dick or not? Cuz the only way I‘m staying is if I get to disappear behind this speedball. Kindly keep your fuckin’ clap shut long enough for me to find a good vein, then I might be willing to fuck for at least a couple minutes on this pre-dawn Tuesday and hopefully even be out your door before the neighbors leave for their jobs and start judging your morality, of which a pig has more. With me, what you see is what you get: A sweating, spinning, chemical-reeking trainwreck is exactly what you’re seein’ see, what you get, and what you’re stuck with until I’ve coerced sufficient Jacksons, Grants and Benjamins to move the Tina Express … cuz on top of it all, seeing as how I still ain’t pulled my dick out yet, means you probably ain’t gettin’ none!”
“Come hang with a real man. I’m totally classy and easy on the eyes. A nice guy, but just don’t test my trust. Great at conversation. I can keep it going for hours.” Translation: “Real men like me don’t hang with other dudes to play grab-ass. I’m totally class-free trash, and it’s easier on my eyes the further away from me across the room you are. So long as you don’t say nothin’ we can have a great conversation. I can keep it going for hours, or until you’ve bribed me your wallet empty for me to just please get the fuck out, whichever comes first. I’ve nowhere nicer to be and no hurry to get there. Oh, it’ll eventually be your wallet’s last dollar stolen what finally forces me out, in that trust you may test.”
“My pix are 100% real. NO FAKES. Everyone says how my pictures don’t do me justice. So, if you’re tired of being always catfished by prawns, this sleek otter has a very positive energy you’ll never forget.”
Howard presumes even the most carnival-barker-challenged of you here surely caught this red herring? No? Are you kidding me? You mean every single person I see before me possesses huckster-spotting antennae utterly of stone? But, you’re gay! We gays see through everything! Every piece of bullshit that comes down the pike, we’re the very first to call it out! You know, my pets, it’s not too late to join the 101s; plus, they’ve lavender/rosehip crème brulee to enjoy… free of charge, no less.
“DO NOT CALL — read it again, NO CALLS — or text me inappropriately. I have no tolerance for games. I’m not into kissing, or any other form of oral reciprocation and no BB — repeat, NO BAREBACK — so don’t even ask me. I’m one hundred ten percent straight, only my girlfriend’s out of town tonight and, well, you know…”
Now, class, here at last we come to the… oh, my stars, is that the bell already? And just when we were getting to the real juice, too. We’ll move further along faster tomorrow — the first day always requires a bit more ironing-out-the-wrinkles, but just between you, me and Mickey D, I’m wondering if the administration didn’t just go all slab-job at vetting those 101s; that, or else they don’t much care about ensuring the LGBT community always stays one sprinting step ahead of dissolution. You Millennials arrived here today already universally labeled as overly coddled, entitled lounge lizards with minimal work ethics and permanently crippled conversational skills. So what does this bode for the generation of toddlers now coming up behind you? A go-getter, global battalion of environmentally conscious, morally attuned/societally alert statesmen (ha!) or an even more zombified, kaleidoscope-eyed scrapheap of your mirror’s own shards of regret? Aww, but just look at how cute and innocent the precious little cuties are currently — caintcha just melt? Hey, time to throw us that tweakin’ kiki, everybody! Dreadlock the doors, dial down the dimmers, ramp up the “I Feel Love” disco ball, all the way to Mach 1 sparkle-and-circulate, and start spillin’ that tea, Mz. Girlfriend! Everybody’s friends here of Dorothy, but now, Howard — oh, you shade-throwin’ cagey rapscallion! You so, SO fly bad — they did, too, have pavlova, and them “bullets” were blanks!
It’s life as magic.
— Howard Lewis Russell
Contact Howard at [email protected]