The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
This is how I am feeling right now.
Dance like no one’s watching.
Sing like no one’s listening.
“Don’t Back Down” – Donald Dump finally got convicted, but that muthafucka belongs in JAIL for TREASON! LOCK HIM UP!!
“And yes, age is an issue. I’m a grown man running against a six-year-old.” – Joe Biden, April 2024.
RESIST, INSIST, PERSIST, ENLIST! (Thank you Hillary!)
VOTE BLUE 2024!
PS – HAPPY BIRTHDAY (June 1) to Squire John Gray!
Recently Sean (the dear!) was posting thirst traps to his blog, but was worried about how they would be received by his readership. As I am straight now they had no effect upon me one way or the other, but I assured him that much of his readership would find it inspiring. He was doubtful, so I decided to look for evidence.
Lo and behold, I eventually found that evidence on one of those fanfiction sites. People have certainly been busy putting poor Sassybear in interesting situations. Below I have pasted an excerpt from one of those stories; hopefully it is tame enough that my blog will not get shut down by the WordPress Morality Police. (Let’s just say those fanfiction writers tend to get racy.)
Sean is busy exercising when he is interrupted by the doorbell.
Huff, huff, huffed Sean as he ran on his treadmill. His thicket of chest hair glistened with sweat as he jogged, his pectoral muscles rippling, his shapely thighs burning. Exercising on a treadmill in his basement was less fun than hitting the trails of upstate New York, but the weather outside was dreadful, and Sean wanted to spend his energy exercising, not dealing with catcalls and wolf whistles as he jogged by.
Although Sean had a sense that others found him stunningly attractive, he could not understand why. He thought of himself as an ordinary fellow who had put on a few too many pounds. Furthermore he wanted to be healthy regardless of how he looked, so jogging on the basement treadmill it was. Besides, he wanted to look good for his upcoming trips to Provincetown and Fort Lauderdale.
It was true that while on vacation he tended to receive his fair share of salacious attention — waiters proffering impromptu shoulder massages, total strangers stroking his chest under the pretense of brushing away anoles from his clothes — he felt oddly self-conscious about walking around in public without his shirt the way all the other beautiful men did. Exercise was no fun but Sean hoped the results would be worth the effort.
Huff, huff, huffed Sean, thinking that if he had an especially good workout he would later be able to reward himself with an alcoholic beverage probably containing gin. Huff, huff.
“Ding dong!” said the doorbell.
“Who could that be?” asked Sean. He was not expecting company. Might it be a Jehovah’s Witness or some Mormon elders visiting to convert him? Perhaps it was a fundraiser for the Republican Party?
“Ding dong!” repeated the doorbell, more insistently.
Shirtless and sweaty, Sean felt he was in no condition to be answering the door. But it might be important, and if somebody was going to answer it would have to be him. Sean’s handsome husband Jeffrey was out of the house, and his adorable dog Harvey was not tall enough to reach the doorknob. Sean decided he would risk going upstairs and peeping through his peephole.
“Ding dong!” said the doorbell a third time. Clearly this visitor was both insistent and impatient. With a sigh, Sean turned off the Tig Notaro comedy special he had been watching and headed up the stairs, his calves aching from the treadmill.
At the door stood a tall muscular blue-eyed man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Alan Ritchson, star of Reacher, the ensemble series Titans, and the horrible sitcom Blue Mountain State. Transfixed, Sean opened the door.
“Yes?” asked Sean.
“Why hello,” said the tall muscular blue-eyed man. “I have a special delivery for Sean B____. Would he happen to be around?”
“I’m Sean,” said Sean. “But I am not expecting any deliveries. Lately I have been using my incredible willpower to avoid impulse purchases. Perhaps there has been a mistake?”
“Oh, I doubt that,” said the tall muscular blue-eyed man. “This is a surprise gift from Hugh Jackman and Chris Meloni.”
“Hugh Jackman and Chris Meloni? Why would they be sending me a gift?”
“Apparently, they were talking with one of your friends recently, and they realized they had not been paying you the attention you deserve. They worried they were acting like you didn’t exist, which made them feel awful. So they decided to make it up to you with this special delivery.”
“Oh, I’m flattered!” said Sean. “I’m not sure what to say. But may I ask you a question?”
“Go right ahead, sir,” said the tall muscular blue-eyed man.
“I notice that you bear a remarkable resemblance to Alan Ritchson, star of Reacher, the ensemble series Titans, and the horrible sitcom Blue Mountain State. Do you get tired of being told that?”
“Of course not. I am Alan Ritchson, after all,” said the tall muscular blue-eyed man, who in fact was Alan Ritchson.
“You’re Alan Ritchson? But why are you working as a delivery driver?”
“Food inflation has been pretty high, and it turns out that being an internationally famous TV and film star doesn’t always pay enough to cover the bills. So sometimes I take on gig work.”
Sean’s mind boggled. All of a sudden he had a newfound appreciation for his soul-deadening job in government bureaucracy. “May I ask another question?” Sean asked.
“Go right ahead.”
“Why are you taking your shirt off?”
“As I said, Sean,” said internationally famous TV and film star Alan Ritchson, “this is a special delivery.”
Well, another Dec 5 has come and gone, yet I am still here. I have not been beaten with bundles of sticks. I have not been thrown into a wicker basket and been taken down to my forever home. Krampusnacht has come and gone, and justice has not been served.
Now that Henry Kissinger is gone, I am not sure there are many more suitable candidates for the Krampus’s wrath. I have been naughty and misbehaving for decades, and this year I turned things up a notch. I was greedy and miserly and gluttonous. I was oblivious to other people’s pain. I left many cruel comments on people’s blogs under the guise of wit. I studiously avoided charity and kindness. I openly questioned people’s relationships with their One True Loves in Ohio. I flubbed basic knowledge of queerness so badly I had to resign my card in humiliation and shame. I slacked off at work. I yucked other people’s yums. I neglected my chores at home. I didn’t read enough books. Whenever the opportunity presented itself to make the world a better place I looked away and pretended I had not seen. I hurt people’s feelings. I used uncouth unladylike language regularly. I got along poorly with others and had a few screaming fits at people who did not deserve such. I was a bad friend and a bad neighbor. I was lazy and undisciplined. I let too many correspondences lapse from neglect. When in the company of others I dominated conversations and talked too much, and whined and moaned and complained. I always had advice to proffer and no grace to accept any that was given. I played Mariah Carey’s Christmas tune on endless repeat for hours and hours. I spent money on indulgent fripperies like money was going out of style, and refused to give money to those who would really benefit. I am generally regarded, if regarded at all, as the most unpleasant, stingy, sinful person in town. And yet, once again justice has not been served. I am beginning to wonder whether the Krampus is even real.
Now that I am straight, I decided it was high time that I started reading the literature of my people. As such, I was reading Ayn Rand’s first novel We the Living, and guess who makes a cameo?
Historians will write of the “Internationale” as the great anthem of the revolution. But the cities of the revolution had their own hymn. In days to come, the men of Petrograd will remember those years of hunger and struggle and hope — to the convulsive rhythm of “John Gray.”
It was called a fox-trot. It had a tune and a rhythm such as those of the new dances far across the border, abroad. It had very foreign lyrics about a very foreign John Gray whose sweetheart Kitty spurned his love for fear of having children, as she told him plainly. Petrograd had known sweeping epidemics of cholera; it had known epidemics of typhus, which were worse; the worst of its epidemics was that of “John Gray.”
-p. 154
The revolution in question is the Russian revolution that brought the Communists to power. It turns out Rand is not fond of communism, given that she spent formative years living through the Russian revolution and apparently had her father’s business confiscated by the State.
It turns out that John Gray makes more than a cameo in the book. In her characteristically deft and understated way, Rand beats us over the head with the song any time she wants to juxtapose the rhetoric of the glorious Communist Revolution with the miserable way people living under the Revolution actually lived.
And what does this “John Gray” sound like, I hear you ask? Fortunately for you, the capitalist pig-dogs at Youtube have made it available:
Did you know that trans people can write books? I guess I should not have found it that surprising. Lots of people can write books, and I never explicitly thought trans people couldn’t write books, but now that I am straight I just assume all cultural works are created by straight people like me. Looks like I am wrong! (Oh my. Does this mean gay people can also write books? Mind blown.)
In any case, among my pickups at the library Pride display was a novel called Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters. This book is about detransitioning and about babies, although not necessarily in that order. I am not sure I want to reveal much more of the plot than that, because unlike Rick I really liked this book and hope that some of you read it. (“Liked” might be a strong word. The book was compelling if not likeable, in any case.)
Did you know that trans people have a culture, and that is pretty different from straight culture? Furthermore, it seems pretty different from mainstream gay culture, too. Who knew? This book is probably written for outsiders to that culture, but it reads as if it is written for insiders. The effect is that we feel as if we are peeking into a new world we didn’t know exist, and where we will somehow not ruin everything by observing. Although I am 100% confident that this book is not the definitive guide to trans experiences, it reads like a book that is a definitive guide to a particular trans experience. There are a lot of passages about the rituals and conventions about this culture, as well as the mandatory observations about how cis people are clueless around their trans brethren. The book is full of clever observations, many of which made me feel bad for enjoying.
The book feels genuine. The characters here are not heroic propaganda pieces in the Culture Wars. They are kind of messed up, and they all do unlikable things even though we want to like them. They think and say politically-incorrect things, and even worse have the audacity to criticize their own tribes. I don’t think Torrey hates white trans woman culture, but she sure can be judgmental of it.
On the other hand, the straight male characters feel more like cardboard cutouts, and often they end up being villainous, but I suppose nobody else is going to fill that niche.
The book is structured pretty well. The plot is tight and solid. In several cases scenes that you thought were present for character development are actually Chekov’s Gun, which adds a lot to the story. I did not re-read the book but even in taking excerpts I could see all of the herrings Torrey plants that point towards future revelations. As Sassybear knows I have problems suspending disbelief, but even though many of the situations in this book are wild (Truvada as a trans birth-control regimen, anyone?) they did not knock me out of the story.
If you choose to read this book you should be forewarned that Torrey is merciless. She writes things that might well make you feel uncomfortable. Although the actions of her characters are consistent to their natures, some of those actions are not pretty.
On that note, I will close with an excerpt that illustrates the politically-incorrect observations Torrey makes. I enjoyed this passage, which is more evidence that can be used against me in case I ever appeal my conviction. (I had originally planned to post a long excerpt about juvenile elephants, but in addition to upsetting Maddie it contained some false statements, so I swapped it for this one.)
If you are a trans girl who knows many other trans girls, you go to church a lot, because church is where they hold the funerals. What no one wants to admit about funerals, because you’re supposed to be crushed by the melancholy of being a trans girl among the prematurely dead trans girls, is that funerals for dead trans girls number among the notable social events of a season.
Who knows what people will say at a trans funeral? Will some queer make a political speech instead of a eulogy, so that for weeks afterward other queers will post outraged screeds about it on social media? How many times will a family member deadname or misgender the deceased from the pulpit, unabashed about it in his grief, peering out at the sea of weirdos who showed up unexpectedly to what he considered a family event? Did their son — er, daughter — really have all these friends? Which nice white cis person will remind the assembled mourners — a high percentage of whom are trans women themselves — that everyone must do to save trans women of color, who are being murdered (murdered!), although this particular highly attended funeral is, of course, a suicide, because that’s how the white girls die prematurely.
-p. 209
Recently Maddie (the dear!) posted a Purity Test informing us how many years we would spend in jail for assorted perverted acts. To my shame (but not my surprise) my nymphomanic tendencies landed me eleven years in jail. Thinking through the quiz was like a kick to the face. It brought up a lot of memories of the relationship in which I committed the majority of the misdeeds that led to my sentence. The more I think back to that time the more ashamed I feel, but probably not for the reason you all think.
Have I written about this before? Probably, and no doubt this recounting will differ from others, because I am an unreliable narrator.
I shall refer to my ex-paramour as (the Divine) Miss M. We were incarcerated at an educational institution together, and although we knew each other from classes we did not really run in the same social circles until I fixed my predatory gaze upon her. Shockingly I overcame my social anxiety and made the first move. We were all sitting in a hallway waiting to see our teaching staff or something, and her bubbly manner caught my eye. I introduced myself and tried to be her “friend,” and soon after I was trying to hang out with her a bunch. We took some classes together and our program was a fairly small group, so there were lots of opportunities for interaction. She seemed to have lots of friends and hobbies (including writing poetry), and she was pretty but not overly femme. She was also smart and opinionated, which drew me like a moth to a flame. (Sadly, she was not self-confident about her own intelligence, and since I was a go-hard grades-obsessed Marksist, it made her feel even more insecure.) She introduced me to chick music like The Indigo Girls that I feel nostalgic for to this day. She talked with me and joked with me over email. She spent time with me and did not demand that I get her fancy gifts and expensive dinners. She told me about her family and her cat and her thoughts. When I was in conflict and stress she comforted me. She was much better to me than I deserved.
Of course, there was a love triangle. One of our other classmates (and somebody I considered a friend) was also smitten by Miss M. I think it hurt him a lot when Miss M chose me, which is just another casualty of many in this tale.
It was clear that I was smitten, but nothing sexual happened for over a year. Then she held my hand, and later we were snuggling and kissing on benches. Eventually things progressed from there to overtly sexual acts, as if kissing is not a sexual act.
Even then I was aware of my intrinsically disordered proclivities, and so was Miss M. But that wasn’t really the biggest problem. The biggest problem was that I was an awful human being, especially to her. Think of all the ways a socially awkward, emotionally immature, deeply broken person can emotionally torment another, and I probably did it. I cringe in shame thinking of the things I did. One of the milder ones was talking in baby/toddler talk to her incessantly for several months, but it got much worse than that. Once I thought people I knew were watching me holding hands with her, so I snatched my hand away. I was guilty of threatening self-harm around her to get my own way. When she was sad I automatically assumed it was something I had done, even though her mother was ill at the time, and died of cancer soon after. Once she messed up in a way that was deeply embarrassing to her, and instead of comforting her I tried to initiate a Performance Improvement Plan. I was insufferable.
Of course, I was oblivious to all the ways in which I was hurting her. I clung to her and depended upon her emotional labor, and offered little in return. At first I was “funny” and “charming”, but that gave way to emotional manipulation and outright abusive behavior. (Spo-fans will be familiar with this pattern.) Once she left me a voicemail where she was crying, and I did not respond well. Once I felt guilty because she would take cabs home after our trysts, and so I gave her a big lump sum of money, which she interpreted as me thinking of her as a prostitute. That was not my intention, but it is not as if I comforted her.
Sweet baby Jesus that wasn’t the worst of it. I also hurt other people in the process. In our program was another fellow who was peripherally in our friend group. He was a bit of a bully and started calling Miss M a derogatory epithet, and in response I started calling HIS girlfriend a derogatory epithet, which was really hurtful to said girlfriend and which she did not deserve at all. The damage I did was immeasurable.
At some point I decided I would leave town, and it did not even occur to me that Miss M would have opinions about this. I don’t know whether that was the last straw or whether that straw came earlier, but finally she came to her senses and dumped me. Of course, I wanted sex afterwards, which added five years to my sentence for “sex with an ex”. I could not even understand why Miss M didn’t seem to be into it.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Thank all of the goddesses Debra worships that she dumped me. I was a terrible person to her. Despite all that we kept in touch for a while. She even came to visit me once in Lurkville. It hurt a lot to be dumped. I don’t think I really got over it for years and years, if indeed I am over it now. But boy howdy did she do the right thing.
It has been years — decades even — and we have mostly lost touch. I still send her a message each birthday, which she dutifully ignores. She did eventually get into another relationship, which had complications of its own. I don’t know much about where she is at now, but I hope she’s doing well and is happy. I also hope that the other people I hurt during that time are doing well. This is mostly wishful thinking.
As for the sex? In some sense it was fine, and in some senses it was awful. I was terrified of pregnancy, so not much penis-vagina interaction happened, and the first time it did I traumatized Miss M by bursting into tears of fear and unhappiness; I cried for half an hour. When we were sexually involved I far preferred attending to her pleasures than the other way around. I enjoyed cuddling, and I enjoyed boobies, and I enjoyed cunnilingus. But I was not a good lover.
In some sense maybe it was nice that I got sex out of the way, so that I did not spend the rest of my life wondering what it was all about. But it was never mind-blowing, and it was always tinged with guilt and fear. Certainly the experience was not worth the cost. If I could relive those years I would wish that Miss M choose her other suitor over me. He was a good guy and even if their relationship was not a long-term one (as if mine was?) it would have been less harmful to her.
Given my intrinsically disordered proclivities, was I genuinely attracted to Miss M? Who knows? She was pretty enough, and I suppose I found her attractive. Back before I was straight, there were certainly dudes who made me weak in the knees in ways that I tended not to feel towards ladies, but that doesn’t mean I did not find ladies unattractive in their own way. Even before I was straight I found the misogynistic gynephobia expressed by so many gay men offputting, and maybe this is why.
Miss M was not the first person I traumatized, and she would not be the last. To this day I am acutely aware of my emotionally abusive tendencies, which may be one reason I have not been in an explicitly sexual relationship since. But it is not as if I am innocent either. Among the few friendships I have, several (maybe the majority?) are with women, and those women just happen to be interesting and attractive. My predatory impulses have not diminished one bit.
So, eleven years in jail. It doesn’t seem like enough. I deserve several times that for the harm I have caused. I suppose we should all be hoping that there is an afterlife so I get my just desserts.
Now that I am straight I figured it was time to learn about some of the things that straight people should be frightened of. Fortunately a visit to the public library last month provided ample opportunity. Right at the front entrance — where children might see — there was a bookshelf full of Pride-related books. Given that I do not know very much about gay culture (which Spo-fans will recall is how I got into this mess in the first place) I picked up a few and took them home and read them.
One of the books was titled Rick by Alex Gino. It is ostensibly a children’s book, published by Scholastic. I suspected it was one of the many books challenged by parents at school boards, and sure enough I was right. Although I am not a free-speech absolutist I am pretty close, but after reading the book for myself even I have to admit that the Concerned Parents have a point. This book does not seem appropriate for children at all.
This blog entry is going to be pretty spoilery, so if you want to experience the surprises contained in this work of literature for yourself (and are emotionally-mature enough to handle the subject matter) then you might want to stop here and pick up the book before continuing. Otherwise let us spoil away.
The protagonist Rick is either pre-pubescent or in early puberty. He is headed off to middle school and is anxious about it. Fortunately his best friend Jeff is going to middle school too, so Rick won’t be alone. Jeff gets into trouble sometimes and bullies people, but Rick and Jeff enjoy playing violent video games together, and Jeff is nice enough to Rick, so they get along okay.
One thing that upsets Rick is that he makes objectifying statements about girls in their class, such as calling girls hot and questioning whether they have boobs. Rick does not find girls hot and does not question whether they have boobs, so he feels out of place. Then he learns about the school “Rainbow Spectrum” club, which I guess is what the kids call Gay-Straight Alliances these days. He is scared to go but goes anyways, and he meets a bunch of weirdos with all kinds of identities. At some point Rick decides that since he does not like objectifying girls (or boys) he must be asexual. Nobody believes him because he is in early puberty, but he sticks to his guns and accepts that if things change later it will be okay. (I for one hope he holds lightly to that identity. There are certainly asexuals in the world, but for most of us once the hormones kick in it is game over. I wanted to avoid sex too and look what happened to me.)
Together the club decides to put on a talent show/cabaret to raise money for LGBTQ+ books in the classroom. They put up some posters to advertise, but — oh no! — some homophobe defaces them. It turns out that the homophobe is Jeff, who even asks Rick to cover for him as he attempts to light a sign on fire.
This revelation makes Rick feel torn between his old best friend Jeff and his new best friends in the Rainbow Spectrum club. But eventually Jeff gets found out, and Rick dumps him as a best friend, and instead allies himself with the weirdos. Meanwhile Rick gets suspended for a whole week, and justice has been served.
There is also a subplot about Rick getting to know his cosplaying transvestite grandpa, but that is less relevant to my Concerns.
After reading this book I was quite frankly horrified. They allow children to read this?
I understand that Rick and the Rainbow Spectrum weirdos are supposed to be the heroes of this book, but let’s consider Jeff. The message of this book is that if somebody acts in homophobic ways you should dump them and not try to be their friend anymore, and that you should be relieved if they are suspended from school. Has anybody in this universe heard of the school-to-prison pipeline? This is how it happens. Kids are troubled, they act out, they get in trouble with their school administrations, they lose their friends for being difficult, and then…? And then they get into more trouble, because they are hurting more, and sooner or later the cops get involved, and then they get criminal records and life gets even more difficult.
I understand that it is the fashion these days to ostracize those who are difficult, but having been in proximity to quite a few people who are on the bottom rungs of society, I can say that charisma and navigating systems are not their strong skills. Instead, they have been hurt and abandoned and hurt and abandoned over and over again. You don’t help these people get better by abandoning them further. You help these people via stability and trust.
Furthermore, I also happen to be a troubled person (who, as Spo-fans know, is still deeply troubled) who through no skill of my own landed in a situation where I was accepted for all (well, most) of my flaws. I am still a deeply broken mess, but the trust and stability others demonstrated towards me gave me the space to heal, at least a little.
There is little in this resolution that is about resilience. It is true that Rick maintains his friendship with Jeff longer than other people think he should, and it is true that there are circumstances where people need to ditch others for their own well-being. But those of you in long-term relationships understand that there are always things in your partner that you find distressing, and that you will never ever change. So what do you do? You can dump your partner for their flaws, or you can accept those limitations and appreciate the ways in which this person is of benefit to you. There is a wide, wide gap between choosing not to be besties with somebody and dumping them forever, and this book is content to take that polarized view.
I appreciate that most of you have little sympathy for Jeff (what if I told you he was black?), but there are other considerations here. Jeff has just been punished and ostracized for defacing some posters. What do we think happens next? Does Jeff become enlightened and stops hating gay people? Or does he get more bitter and more resentful, especially since he has lost his best friend to the Rainbow Spectrum weirdos? How does that increased bitterness make the rainbow community any more safe? It doesn’t, that’s how. Without friends or supports to keep him centred, it is entirely plausible that Jeff is preyed upon by recruiters on the far right, who are all too happy to tell Jeff that he is the real victim, and those snowflakes on the left are to blame. Lots of kids like Jeff end up on alt-right Reddit or the manosphere or (G-d forbid) Kiwifarms, and that does not make gay people any safer. Maybe additional supports would not fix Jeff, but they could at least be supportive, which might make it less likely that he is radicalized later. The earlier one intervenes the better, but this book abandons Jeff completely. There is nothing in the book about Jeff seeing a counsellor, or getting other supports (not that such supports are that effective, because abandonment). He just gets dumped and then mostly disappears.
Let’s talk about homophobes. Jeff has committed homophobic actions, but that in itself does not make him a homophobe. I do not like conflating the actions people take with their identities, and in the case of homophobic actions this is almost always a mistake. People who act out for attention frequently say and do the most offensive things they can — not because they believe these things, but because that gets them the most attention. Jeff probably does not have much love for queer people, and his actions made queer people feel unsafe, but that does not mean he hates queer people. The sooner we can get that into our heads, the more opportunities we have to address people’s homophobic actions so they are less dangerous to the queer community. Are people homophobic because they are trying to be offensive? Then we try to understand why they are trying to be offensive. Are they homophobic out of tribal loyalty? This is a tough nut to crack, but it starts with people moving from “all gay people are disgusting” to “all gay people are disgusting, except for my friend Jimmy. He’s not like those other gays.” Then hopefully it moves further. Are they homophobic because they have been emotionally scarred by an experience? Then we try to process that experience. In none of these cases is giving up helpful, but that is the way the pendulum has swung.
Who knows? Maybe all of you are right, and we can use punishment and ostracization to cure homophobia. Coercion is a powerful technique in the short term. But coercion leads to backlash, and backlash comes with all kinds of collateral damage. Sometimes force is necessary, but it is not a great first resort. Should Jeff face consequences for defacing posters? Sure. Should he face consequences from Rick for behaving badly? Yes, but the way Rick handles this is far from salubrious: he dumps all the complaints he had for the past several years on Jeff, and then unceremoniously dumps him. That is certainly a strategy, but keeping your feelings bottled up until you explode has consequences too. (Ask me how I know this.)
Look. I don’t have kids, and despite my new orientation I am very unlikely to ever have kids. (Can we take a moment to thank every single goddess Debra worships that this is the case?) But if I was a parent I would be Concerned about this book. It seems very much in the mainstream of modern queer discourse, but there are aspects of that discourse I find quite upsetting, and the hyperpolarization of tribal memberships is definitely one of them. I do not think this book is worthy of censorship, but it does not surprise me that Concerned Moms would want it off the shelves.
Now that I am straight I guess it is time for me to learn how straight relationships work. This seems like a lot of work, but fortunately Mike in Missouri (the dear!) provided a cheat sheet: he published a marital scale that accurately and objectively lists the properties spouses appreciate and do not appreciate in each other. Unfortunately the JPEG he published was difficult to read, so as part of my penance I have transcribed it. Perhaps you will be able to use these criteria to evaluate and improve your own straight relationships.
Carefully note the weightings that Dr Crane assigns to each question. I find the most heavily-weighted one particularly interesting.
Dr Crane describes the test at the bottom of the page, and gives the scoring at the top. I include both at the top, and only include the text for the husband text, as the wifely text is the same with the genders reversed.
Also note that Dr Crane’s rating scale is non-negative. A bold assumption! (There is a reason I shall never be a husband or a wife, I guess.)
George W. Crane, Ph. D., M.D.
In computing the score, check the various items under DEMERITS which fit the husband and add the total. Each item counts one point unless specifically weighted, as in the parentheses. Then check the items under MERITS which apply. Now subtract the DEMERIT score from the MERIT score. The result is the husband’s raw score. Interpret it according to this table:
Raw Scores/Interpretation
This test represents the composite opinions of 600 wives who were asked to list the chief merits and demerits regarding their husbands. They talked frankly. I have summarized the most frequently voiced flaws and virtues and have weighted those items which, in my judgment as a psychologist and physician, are especially important in marriage. I commend this test to the attention of all intelligent men who aspire to make their marriages both permanent and happy. Young men contemplating matrimony might very profitably use this test as a practical guide.
Dr. George W. Crane
Now that I am straight I figured it was time to learn about the roles and responsibilities of straight people. Thus I conducted a comprehensive unstructured qualitative survey (N=2) of the straight male population. What I learned may not be appropriate for those with weak constitutions.
I have known both Subject#1 and Subject#2 for years. I did not check their certifications but from outward appearances they are both quite straight. Both of them are immigrants, have well-paying Immigrant-Parent-Approved jobs, and are more successful than me in every way.
Subject#1 was married to a woman he met overseas. They moved back to Lurkistan together and lived in happily wedded bliss while she pursued higher education. Then she abruptly left him, and he was on the hook for over a hundred thousand dollars of alimony money. He took out some loans and paid off the alimony, and should have that debt paid off sometime next year. He had the option of paying an enormous lump sum or paying alimony for the next ten years, and opted for the lump sum. He says that if they had had children he would have been paying more.
Subject#1 has dipped his toe into the dating pool since. He says that straight people meet each other online now, and that it is awful. He says that at his age (he is in his early forties) there are only two types of women out there: those who are broke and looking for a man to support them financially, or those who are financially successful and independent and are looking for “arm candy” to accompany them to events and such. The aforementioned arm candy should be financially successful, handsome, well-educated, and have nice stuff. He told me a horror story about his penultimate relationship with a local girl. The dates were going okay until the third one, when she told him he needed to wear nicer brand-name polo shirts to his dates, and preferably that he pick her up in a nicer car. He says this is a common pattern among the women he has dated. (Good grief. Where would I even get designer polo shirts? Do they sell them at the thrift store?)
Interestingly, it seems Subject#1 has opened up his horizons beyond the local dating pool. Apparently he was on a dating app that catered to a lot of prospects living in Latin America (I do not remember the name of the app, but it is probably for the best I not mention it here lest Maddie learn of it). There he met a woman living in Ecuador, and they seem to have hit it off. He says he is aware of the obvious red flags around immigration and financial disparities and such, but that so far they have an emotional connection and it has been working. He has flown to Ecuador for a week’s stay to meet this woman in person, but also has not told his parents about his dating life, which is interesting because he lives at home with his parents. (No, it’s not like that. He was living on his own until the pandemic, when his parents asked him to move back. As a Good Son he did, and now he pays for a bunch of their bills in addition to paying rent.)
Subject#1 is aware that this relationship might not work out, and is not wedded (so to speak) to getting married again. But he made it quite clear that the role of a straight man is to provide, and that women expect their men to do so.
Subject#2 expressed similar themes, albeit in a different way. He had also gotten married and had the marriage fall apart, but I think it dissolved in a matter of weeks, not years. He really wanted a wife and children though, so he persevered and eventually found somebody who dutifully produced a son for him. He is also a Good Son. He bought a big house in the deepest darkest depths of suburbia, and lives there with his wife and his kid and his brother and his mother and his mother-in-law (both of whom are widowed). He is also very much the provider in his family, and is on the hook for hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of mortgage.
Clearly, Subject#2 won the rat race. I guess he is happy and got what he wants, but I am not sure he is content. I certainly was not content; I was horrified. If nothing else I was distressed about the blatant patriarchy of his arrangement: he and I (and his male kid) sat eating breakfast while all the womenfolk ran around preparing lunch and responding to whatever requests/orders he made. I guess this the outcome to which all straight men aspire, but (if you’ll forgive the expression) to me it seems like a booby prize. Mortgages sound horrible, mansions in the suburbs sound horrible, supporting dependents sounds horrible, children sound horrible, and sitting around while others serve me sounds horrible. This is what I have to look forward to? If I am lucky and win the straight guy lottery??
I wish both Subject#1 and Subject#2 the best success in their lives. As I have said, I have known both for years, they are both successful, and although they have no reason to associate with a mentally-unfit failure like me both agreed to visit. But what a dismal prospect I face.
I am almost more hurt by Subject#1’s observations of female expectations on the dating sites. I have no interest (and little ability) to be supporting others financially. I certainly don’t have good looks or nice things. I ain’t going to be anybody’s arm candy. I thought my prospects were pretty dismal in the gay world, but it looks as if things are much worse now that I am straight. I might as well start browing incel subreddits and be done with it, because I am not going to win that rat race. As for Ecuador? That ain’t going to happen for me. I can’t even afford to leave town for longer than a day trip, never mind take a one week jaunt on a plane.
Everything I have learned so far indicates that being straight is awful. I do not know how straight people manage to do it. Again and again, I lament the terrible life decisions that led me to this situation.
Yes, of course I have thought about trying to appeal my excommunication. I have prayed and begged and pleaded that somehow, someway I not be straight. I have even given serious thought to put in the work necessary to regain my gay credentials — reading all of Sixpence’s posts and commenting on them and even watching all the videos, but then I remembered that in addition to the innumerable house tours he also posts multi-hour fashion runway videos, and I just don’t have the time. I barely have a job now! I don’t want to be unemployed again! So there are no good options, and everything is hopeless.
Probably I will be excommunicated by the straights as well, and then I will be like one of those people who find themselves stateless when their home country and adopted country both rescind their citizenship. I will be without a sexual orientation, and be denied all the privileges and protections associated with such.
Recently I had a decision to make. I am a member of an organization that is mostly composed of straight people. They recently decided to “celebrate” Pride month with an ostentatious Queer + Drag Queen Trivia event, and I had to decide whether to participate. I felt the entire thing was rawther performative, but decided to take part. I read your blogs, right? Surely I know lots about gay culture? Plus the people hosting the trivia night (a drag queen and an extraverted homo) were getting paid for this piece of entertainment.
As if. I was humiliated. Our team finished second, which doesn’t sound so bad until you understand there were only three teams. The winning team might well have had a few ringers who knew all the answers, but that doesn’t excuse my ignorance. I read Maddie’s blog. I peruse Debra’s transgaybipalooza posts. Of course I should know the current TV show that has the highest trans representation in the cast of all time. Of course I should recognise the drag queen/social media star who goes hiking and embraces environmentalism (especially as it was a multiple choice question!) Of course I should know the city that hosted the largest Pride parade in history, or the city that holds a floating Pride on a river. But no. I was stumped. I even missed many of the basics. Did I know on which street in New York the Stonewall Inn is located? Did I know the groundbreaking TV show in which Rickie Vasquez portrayed an openly gay character? No. No I did not.
What hubris was it to think that my straight teammates needed my help. A few of them were big Drag Race fans, which makes them better gays than me even though they were straight.
Between this humilation and me fighting with you all month over the meaning of Pride, I think it is pretty clear that I don’t belong in this club. It is time to hand back the membership card and burn all my rainbow paraphernalia. I never qualified for the toaster oven so at least I don’t have to pay the shipping for that. Living as a straight person sounds pretty awful, to be honest, but Sixpence is right: if I wanted to belong I needed to put in the work.
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
Writings and Curiosities
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
So Many Years of Experience But Still Making Mistakes!
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The road I have traveled to get to where I am today.
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
A mix of corporate and private life experiences
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
A place for Beards to contemplate and grow their souls.
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
When the "dude-erus speaks, E.F. Hutton listens.
To live is to battle with trolls in the vaults of heart and brain. To write; this is to sit in judgment over one's Self. Henrik Ibsen
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
The mouthiest lurker you ever did see
Formed in 2009, the Archive Team (not to be confused with the archive.org Archive-It Team) is a rogue archivist collective dedicated to saving copies of rapidly dying or deleted websites for the sake of history and digital heritage. The group is 100% composed of volunteers and interested parties, and has expanded into a large amount of related projects for saving online and digital history.
Old Lurker 