Sharing a story or two about being gay-bashed

Maybe it's the leg warmers. I was wearing them both times.

But fuck that! It's a tired and ugly cliché, "What were you wearing?" they asked the rape victim. The onus of the victim is immediately shifted toward the victim, and the crime falls to the wayside. I won't have it. I wear what I choose.

The first time was, in the most optimistic spin, a compliment. I was at Alder and Park around 11:30 pm walking. The drive by has plenty of time to evaluate my look and, passing by, yells, "Princess, you're looking good!" (Relevant caveot, I had survived Walla Walla hate-bash free until I was called faggot at the same intersection in 2005. I wished I'd had a bat at that moment, I still see that truck driving around.) This was uninvited, but banal. I gave it little thought.

This time, I was threatened.

If you did no know, I go to Golden Horse for karaoke, 1-3 times a week. I've gotten to know a few of the people there. Relevant to this story is Keith, a fuck-up living with (mooching off) his dad gay dude who'd taken a fancy to me. He took his dad there often. Anyway, Keith introduces me to his brother Mark, who shakes my hand genially. Flash forward to March of '10. Keith has moved to Seattle. I'm taking a fresh breath of air by myself, outside the GoHo. Mark is there with his wife calling Keith a faggot, and it's faggot this, faggot that, and I don't bat an eye. I'm saying nothing, pretending not to be interested, just the guy in the corner not engaging.

He says, "that faggot over there."

My heart starts racing. I'm here, dumbass. Say it to my face.

Still having said nothing, he comes over to me. I believe in eye contact when people speak to me. It could have been my first mistake. My only mistake.

(Only the best transcription I have)

"Hey. Hey! I'm talking to you. You have a lot to know. I'm talking to you. Hey. We're just talking. Yeah. You know? Just talking. You're a faggot, right? I can say it 'cause my brother Keith is a faggot, too."

(Just then, a Man named R•••••• walks by, and he yells out, "R••••••, you're a faggot, right?")

"I seen you with Keith. You're friends. He's a motherfucker. I can't stand the way he's fucked with us. Fuck him. Do you know that the bible says about people like you?"

(no answer)

"Well, do you?"

(start looking in the eyes)

So, I know I have no choice at this point, I either have to engage and try to avoid violence, or certainly invite violence by not engaging. So I took my chances with a defensive move.

"I didn't talk to you. I never talked to you. Why are you starting a conversation?"

He was angry. To my MF saving grace, some people showed up.

He says, "I don't want to start shit, no. I am asking you a question. Do you know what the bible says about you?"

(having slept with his brother, I have inside information about Mark and some latin chick he'd rather keep quiet, and I think God has a similar trajectory for the two of us)

I kept my cool. As best as I could. All the time I'm looking in this man's eyes. I keep saying, "You don't talk to me, I never talk to you."

And still he persists. "You are a no good faggot brother!"

"I'm not your brother. Talk to him."

"Fuck you, faggot, you talked to him!"

This is where it gets unreasonable. He wanted to gay-bash his brother, but all there was was me. His friends tried to persuade him, but he kept right on, faggot this, faggot that. They finally persuaded him to go in, but he was promptly kicked out. I stayed in, was respectful, and was escorted to where I had to be.

No punches. I sang a song, shortly after, and dropped a lot of F bombs. It was well-received. I mentioned over the mic that "if you want to call me a faggot, say it to my face."

So don't call me a Faggot. Unless you mean it in the loving way.

This post is dedicated to Kaj-anne Pepper, and all men serving it to the legendary children and the legends upcoming.

When in the world did I become the sort of person who goes to Vegas?

No, really. I want to know.

The story goes, my sister asked our parents for a bunch of money so that she could take a trip to Vegas, the same year I went to Costa Rica to learn Spanish. As a result of their refusal to her and their allowance to me, she stayed in Farmville, CO, and I had the first (of many) drunken months of my life.

I stayed in Sta. Ana, Costa Rica with a great family who never questioned my comings and goings. I learned enough Spanish to get me from here or there, as long as the next drink was at its end. Also, it was my first foray out of the country, so it was opening my eyes, left and right. It was, as an aside, also a great place to escape my own escalating faggotry (however there was nothing faggoty about Central America). I remember only parts of my last night there. It was the fourth of July, we were celebrating. I took us home with my great skill for direction. They say I was hitting the bottle and ended up naked in a bath tub. I saw it the next morning. The mirror and toilet seat were busted. And so was I. The only thing I remember is putting a bottle to my mouth, and then I woke up with this tight-bodied straight guy against my face between Dallas and Colorado Springs. Suffice it to say it was a long twelve hours of flying.

But my sister wanted to go to Vegas. She had been before. She likes to think I am the favored one, but I have news for you:

I am!

She will never know.

Also, I will never tell her I went to Vegas. That Is my secret.

It hasn't happened yet, which means it might not! But with God as my witness, I will prevail!

But my fucking sister...