I, like the rest of the American population addicted to pop culture, love dirt on celebrities just as much as anyone else. Hell my favorite television show is “Dirt” starring Courtney Cox. However, I try to lead life with a kind heart, and try to not spread a juicy rumor when I hear one. In fact, I’m kind of a party pooper when it comes to that sort of thing. I may be hip to new club openings, and always step with my fashion forward foot first, but I’ve found that you don’t have to be a cesspool of diseased rumors, to be considered trendy or popular in the “Denver Scene.” (I use the term “scene” lightly.)
Over the past few weeks, I have received
An IC popped up on my window a few weeks ago while I was checking my connexion. It was a 28 year old blond boy, whom I had never met. As his occupation, he put “Professional”. I thought to myself,” this guy has got to be interesting.” My friends and I all believe that people that put “professional” as their occupation, they have to be in the adult film industry. Out of slight amusement, I took a few moments to talk to him.
The first thing he wrote was, “Why don’t you have sex with anyone?”
I was taken aback for a moment. No “Hi”. No “What’s up?”. No warning. I couldn’t help but to be slightly entertained by being asked that question by a complete stranger. I also couldn’t help feeling offended. So I asked him who he was, and why it was any of his business.
He then, uninhibitedly explained to me his entire situation.
I dated this boy for a quick second, last summer. Then I dated him again, over the holidays. Both times it ended because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Apparently the boy chatting with me, asked his friend (the boy I broke up with) about me, because he thought I was cute. My ex claimed I was a prude, and never put out. He also said he suspected I had AIDS, because I had disclosed to him that it was a rarity for me to sleep with someone that I had just met. Clearly, that meant I had a sexually transmitted disease. On top of that, I was accused of being a slut, because if I wasn’t having sex with him, I had to be getting it elsewhere. None of those reasons were why I wouldn’t have sex with him. The reason was because I DON’T HAVE SEX WITH PEOPLE I DON’T TRUST. But that of course makes me a diseased slut. Brilliant. Because of this boy’s brazen ignorance upon ICing me, I decided not to go out on a date with him, despite my love for dumb blonds.
A few days ago, I received a text message from a friend of mine. It was forwarded from a mutual friend of ours, and to put it lightly, it had less than pleasant things to say about me. In said text message, it accused me of being a coke-head slut, who steals people’s boyfriends, and if given the opportunity, will ruin your life if crossed.
I almost had to laugh. Everyone who knows me, knows I have been cocaine free for quite some time, now. As for ruining lives and stealing boyfriends, they really give me too much credit. I haven’t played those games since high school. I think people’s misconception of me is derived from who I used to be in high school. I’m not a kid anymore… and neither are they. If you take the time to talk to me for even a moment, you know I’m a different person. However, I try to take these things with stride. I was a pretty erratic teenager, who was known for my “silver tongue, and venomous bite” as an ex-boyfriend once said.
What perhaps irked me the most, was probably what a friend of mine showed me a few days ago. I have been called a lot of things in my life, most recently referring to my use of make up, but some people take it too far. Taking a photograph, and photo shopping the words “Tranny” in red, across my forehead, is a bit extreme. Then posting it on your myspace, thinking someone wouldn’t tell me about it, is a bit ridiculous. (update: because of the amount of emails this boy got trashing him because of the photo, he’s deleted the picture, and made his myspace private.) Honestly, I find that to be a bit hurtful. Who goes through the great lengths to try and terrorize someone? WHAT GAY MAN WOULD DO THAT TO ANOTHER GAY MAN UNPROVOKED? How can you sit at my side, drink that martini I just mixed you, smoke one of my Marlboro Menthol Smooth’s, and call me your friend?
Recently a boy named Lawrence King murdered. Not because he was gay, but because he was a gay boy that wore stiletto boots, and make up. Lets be honest here. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to work it at the age of 15. When I was 15 years old, fuck, at the age of 13, I rocked my silk polyester shirts, Bermuda shorts, and blue and gray eyeliner/ eye shadow combo. I also had the shit beaten out of me on a regular basis. At school and at home.
“He Was An Inspiration For All”, “He Was Fearless, And Has Had An Impact On All Our Lives-,” read the headliners.
“I wish I could have known him. He must have been a fascinating person-,” responds one of the members of the gay website, connexion.
Growing up living a similar lifestyle, it outrages me the kind of reaction the gay community has had to this story.
He wasn’t fearless. He was terrified of the people at school. The boy that murdered him, I have no doubt in my mind had been harassing him, on more than a few occasions. For you to say he had an impact on your life, is a lie. Wishing you could have know him, is useless and vapid. How people fake their love for this poor deceased boy make me sick.
For years straight people have harassed me, because they are scared of what I stand for. For years, gay people have harassed me, because they are scared of what I stand for.
Not two weeks ago, I was drunkenly stumbling down the Hill in Boulder, trying to find my way back to a party I had foolishly left prematurely. I was on the phone with Brady, who was telling me how to get back, when I skipped past a group of people, and walked down the street.
I almost didn’t hear what one of the young men had to say.
“What the fuck is that faggot doing here? Come back here you fucking AIDS faggot! I’ll beat the shit out of you, you fucking pussy bitch!”
Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was that my tolerance for assholes has been reached, that evening. All I know is that I slid my Helio shut, gripped it in my hand tightly, turned, and waited for them to approach me.
One of the boys emerged from the small group, calling me a faggot, opening his arms wide, to appear larger than he actually was. He couldn’t have been taller than 5’8”, had buzzed red hair, and a flannel button up shirt.
I’m a big bitch. Standing at 6’4” and closing in on 200 lbs, I may be gay, but I’m no twink. I don’t take the shit a twink does either. Not anymore.
He immediately realized his mistake, as he got closer to me, and noticed his friends weren’t as close behind him, as he thought. I had passed them quickly, and he misjudged my size, from my distance. I yelled in his direction, “How typical! Call me a fucking faggot! Come beat the shit out of me! Come try at least! Fuck you, and your ignorance!”
I was standing outside “the Sink” on the Hill, and apparently my drunken cursing grabbed the attention of a police officer eating a slice of pizza inside. The short little man finally reached me, and stood on his tip-toes, to try and get in my face. I towered over him, put my hands on his shoulders, and pushed him away, with minimal force. The officer watched as he waddled as quickly as he could.
“Boys, is there a problem here?”
“This fucking asshole is calling me a faggot, and trying to star a fight with me!” I yelled at the officer, but towards the boy, who was getting up from the ground.
The boy tried to lurch at me, but was intercepted by the officer. He then continued to struggle and hassle the officer.
“You fucking asshole faggot! Get the fuck out of here!” I yelled at the pathetic excuse of a man, as I spit at him. The officer yelled at me to get back. I felt this overwhelming wave of confidence, as I turned and walked away, loudly laughing drunkenly.
In retrospect, it wasn’t the most mature route to go: resorting to violence. However, it felt amazing to stand up to someone that had started a scene unprompted. Looking back, it really could have gotten ugly. You never know, he could have had a weapon, and killed me. I could be dead right now, because I don’t put up with intolerance.
And that could have cost me the same fate of Lawrence King: death. What would happen, then?
Suddenly, calling someone that doesn’t live his life fucking and snorting anymore, a (and I quote) “AIDS infested coke-head slut,” isn’t funny. In an instant, that photograph with the words “Tranny” stenciled across my forehead becomes the poster for living a “fearless lifestyle.” “An inspiration” is what you call me, as you tell all your friends about how we spent every moment together, and you respected me so much because I lead my life without thought of what other people said about me, when you were the very one, who started nasty rumors.
I’m not trying to throw a pity party here. I’m trying to open your eyes to the petty things that people say. Everyone that knew of Lawrence King, said they were his friend, and loved him dearly. How can they say that, when they are the very same people that trash his lifestyle, and judge people like him for wearing make up, and being fabulous and fierce?
When did the world wake up, and suddenly become a Gemini?
All I’m saying is that what people say about each other is fucked up.
Especially when you don’t even know them.
Matty B.
