Excerpt from Cute by Jim Everhard CURING HOMOSEXUALITY 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 "Confession-is-good-for-the- soul." 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- I-have-to-tell-the-priest-again." 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 so uncontrollably 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, pimply people 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. If 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, FEAR 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.

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