|Excerpt from Cute
by Jim Everhard
for three incurables, Frank, Stu and Richard
"There are no homosexuals, only fallen heterosexuals."
--Dr. Reuben Sebastian Wildchild
| Of the many known and proven
cures for homosexuality,
the most familiar, perhaps,
is the Catholic Church's version of
According to this ritual, every time
you feel an unclean urge to touch your-
self, you stop your hand with the
mental image of the Pope staring you
in the face and these words: "if-I-do-this-
Then, when you go to confession you
enumerate and fully describe every such
forbidden act leaving out not the
slightest detail and the priest,
who lives anonymously in a dark box,
tells you what you must do to redeem your lost
soul. This usually amounts to kneeling
before a statue of this virgin
who has never allowed the sinful hands
of any man to ever infest her body
with the puerile desires of the flesh and
mutter a prayer that
you won't touch other men hail Mary as you,
in a religious rapture,
fondle your beads.
If this doesn't work,
and one wonders about these
good men whose career it is to sit in the dark
and listen to the pornography of everybody
else's life, the next step is psychoanalysis.
The doctor sits solemnly in the dark
behind you, his hands suspiciously folded
in his lap, and doesn't say a word
while you lie down on a long, lumpy sofa
and tell him about your childhood
and how much you hate yourself
for thinking the things you think
and you wish your tongue would fall out
and it almost does as you go on
and on wondering what the hell this fellow
is listening for as you start inventing
stories about Uncle's anus and house pets.
You soon find out he is interpreting
the things you tell him. According to
psychoanalytic theory, everything you say
means something else even more sinister
than what you meant. Your unknown desires
live within you and control your outward be-
havior. For instance, if you say,
"It's such a beautiful day today
I wanted to leave work early,"
the psychiatrist will interpret this to mean
you are dissatisfied with your job
and this in turn means you are sexually frus-
trated and this goes back to your miserable
childhood which means he'll probably
respond with, "Do you think that this means
you resented your mother when she
wouldn't let you play with yourself?"
If you say you had a dream about flying
he'll interpret it as a dream of sexual
frustration and penis envy meaning
you are really sick since only women
are supposed to have penis envy. He'll
probably ask you, "How did you feel when
you first saw your father's instrument?
Did you notice if it was bigger than yours?
Did he seem ashamed of his?
Did you want to touch it?"
If you tell him you don't recall
what it looked like he'll tell you you
unconsciously wanted it to fall off
so you could flush it down the toilet.
If you tell him you wanted to kill your father
and rape your mother he'll tell you
you had an Oedipus conflict.
He will listen for key words like
umbrella, closet, brother, rooster, shit, nude
and Judy Garland, all of which convey
a large surplus of unconscious homo-
sexual material. For instance, never say:
"I put my umbrella in the closet
and found my brother in the backyard
beating the shit out of a rooster
while looking at nude pictures of
Judy Garland." To a psychiatrist this means:
umbrella = phallic symbol = womb = death = fear that it will rain at
your funeral and no one will come
closet = phallic symbol = womb = mother castration = desire to
work for a fast food chain = prostitution = fear of underwear
brother = phallic symbol = sibling rivalry = castration = desire to
stick your finger up your ass and smell it
rooster = phallic symbol = cock flying = fear of Karen Black =
crashing = fear of impotence = hatred of women = fear of oxygen
shit = phallic symbol = fear of dirt = work = puritan work ethic =
father's penis = sexual frustration = deviations = fascination with
dirt = bad toilet training = sexual hostility toward pilgrims
nude = phallic symbol = opposite sex = original sin truth = fear of
gardens = self-deception = poor sanitation habits desire for
death and return to Earth Mother = return to disco = hatred
of mother = love of analyst but always waiting for some-
one to come along and say no = desire to live in a
hole in the ground
Judy Garland = phallic symbol = fear of tornadoes = love/hate of
sucking = confusion of identity = desire to have oral relations with
a lap dog = necrophilia = fear of Easter bonnets = desire to
be a woman = fear of bad breath = spiritual destitu-
tion = desire to be Dr. Kinsey = existential mal-
function = fear of tubas = fear of dude ranches
and desire to perform unnatural acts with
Mickey Rooney = fear of short,
Like a cancer, one sentence can devour your entire psyche.
If you say you had a hard time coming today
and you don't have anything to say
he'll call that resistance. If you say
it isn't, he'll say that's more resistance.
If you stop resisting, he'll call that
passive-aggressive. If you tell him
you've had it, you're tired of wasting
time and money when you haven't even begun
talking about homosexuality, he'll tell you
your problems run even deeper than he
initially realized and you need hospitalization.
Once you are hospitalized, the doctors
will begin electric shock therapy.
They call it therapy. There is no resistance.
You are not sure who's getting the therapy,
you or the sadistic maniacs who strap you down
and wire you up and turn on the juice
while they flash pictures of naked men
on a screen. The idea is to associate pain
and the fear of death by electrocution
with naked men. Then a comforting female
nurse unstraps you and wheels you, unconscious,
back to your room where she slowly
but surely revives you and stuffs a few pieces of
stale toast and cold eggs down your gullet.
This is supposed to turn you on to women.
none of these cures works
you will probably be thrown out of high school
as a bad influence for all those guys who make you
suck them off in the shower,
then beat you up at the bus stop. If you
still wish to remain homosexual, you will prob-
ably be arrested in the public library
for browsing too long in the "Sexuality"
section or during one of the periodic raids
of a local gay bar or face charges for soliciting
a cop who arrested you and forced you
to give him a blow job while he played
with his siren. In prison
you will probably be gang raped by
lusty straight men who are only acting out
their healthy but stifled heterosexual impulses
and if you are lucky one of them may even
win you in a knife fight and protect you
from the gang except when he trades you
out for a night for a pack of cigarettes or
a shot of heroin. Once you are released
you will become an expert in American
legal procedures as you face future charges
of child molestation, murder and attempts
to overthrow the common decency, whatever that is.
When you have had it, and decide to hijack a
jet and escape, you will discover the small
but important fact that no nation under god
or red offers asylum, political or otherwise,
to a plane full of pansies.
Your best bet is to fly over
the Bermuda Triangle and click
you little red pumps together whispering,
"There's no place like home, there's no
place like home."
In olden days
the main cure for homosexuality (then
often known simply as witchcraft) was
to tie the suspected faggot to a tiny seat
on the end of a long pole suspended
over boiling water. The suspected faggot was then
submerged for half an hour or until
he stopped struggling, whichever happened first.
If he was still alive when they lifted him
from the vat, they spread an oil slick over the water,
resubmerged the suspect and struck a match.
If he went up in smoke,
it meant he was a godless heathen faggot
who deserved to go up in smoke. If a choir
of angels emblazoned the sky and God,
humming the Hallelujah Chorus,
personally pissed out the flames dancing
around the suffocating faggot's body,
he was allowed to return home if he promised
to register four times daily with the local
police and never get his hair cut
in a place called a boutique.
So, you see,
liberalism has increased the life expectancy
of fairies. That's because we've evolved
into the world's wittiest, best groomed
ballroom dancers. Everyone's into
the Queen's vernacular, pierced ears, disco
and poppers. So long as you seek your partner
after dark in the mountains of Montana
at least one hundred miles distant
from the nearest living heterosexual
and keep your meeting anonymous and
under fifteen minutes with no visible
body contact or non-contacting foreplay,
you could not conceivably, even by the
most homophobic, be considered
or accused homosexual by anyone but the most
adamantine and intolerant straight person.
Thanks to science it is now well known
that homosexuality is not transmitted by
tiny springing bugs or bats. We are not burned
at the stake (except during ceremonial
occasions of state for example only)
in the larger urban centers today
though we may still face a constant barrage
of misdemeanors (nastier than a case of crabs)
such as littering, (i.e.,
don't drop your hanky in a city park),
jaywalking (i.e., no matter how cute the
cop may be, don't wiggle your ass when
you buzz across Connecticut Avenue
during rush hour in the middle of the block
waving you-whoo, you-whoo to your color-
ful friends) and loitering (i.e., situated
under the romantic moon in an open
park after dark behind willowy shade trees
on your knees with a look of ecstasy
on your face as he creams into your eager mouth
is considered loitering among other things).
Simple precautions will save you
from a life of humiliation and
all those long blank spots on your résumé
that you have to explain as time
to get your head together or
extended vacation or time spent nursing
your mother back to health
when you were really fired for
turning on a fellow office employee.
In conclusion, there are no known cures
for homosexuality. Faggots have survived
Christianity, psychiatry, social ostracism, jail,
earth, air, wind and fire, as well as the pink
triangle and concentration camps. Nothing
can reckon with you if you can reckon with yourself.
The facts have been available for a long, long time:
where there are human beings, there are faggots.
We were around clubbing each other over the head
just like straight cave men. We were considered magical
by some people. We were considered mysterious.
We were obviously different but not always hated.
Hatred is always self-hatred.
Denial is always fear.
It's easier for THEM when
we hate ourselves,
I don't have to
and I WON'T.
None of us knows how he got here,
for what reason we are here or
why we are who we are.
It is not obvious
and a swish doesn't make me any more obvious
than the lack of one.
I am obvious
because I AM.