Blogs by Bill Brent
WHEN DOES MY PLANE LEAVE?
10/24/2005 4:04:42 AM
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Meet my neighbor, Bert -- one reason I'm glad to be moving soon.
3:20 a.m., Monday morning. I awaken to piss. Bertrude, across the way, honks out his jaded whoops of passion, window open wide like a trailer-trash slutís, not caring who under Godís heaven hears his carryings-on, not caring who he disturbs. Selfish, childish, puer aeternus.
Bertrude two hours ago, before I went off to bed: ďBy the end of the weekend, youíre, like, so cleaned out, and all the tops are so tired of pushy bottoms, not giving them what they want, and theyíre so grateful.Ē Bertrude holds forth on the alleged complexities of topic number one, yet again. I think his mind is slowly turning into a mishmash of simplistic generalities: There are only two categories of gay men, tops and bottoms. Tops canít get what they want. All bottoms are pushy. (That oneís a direct quote.)
Reductionist Bertrude, trapped in a binary world where gay menís only value is their sex. Tops and bottoms. The beautiful and the ugly. The deserving and the undeserving. The hunter and the game. You get the idea? With a meat-market mindset like that, heís well on his way to turning into just another lonely gay bigot.
And thatíll be the real end of his weekend. Because no one likes to talk to a tired old crank except other commiserating old cranks. And by then, theyíre all too tired, old, and cranky to sniff each otherís butts. (If they ďhadĒ each other back in the day, thereíll be nothing left to excite them about each other now. And if they didnít Ö well, girls donít f*** their girlfriends. Thatís a rule, too. And Bertrudeís world is filled with nothing if not rules.)
So, at the end of their long, lost weekend, they find themselves with nothing left to do but flap their gums, drink their poison, and wonder what brought the world to its present sorry state. Theyíll disparage the young (meanwhile coveting their energy and beauty), but then theyíll turn that jaded jawboning into a lip-lock around the local gloryhole because thatís the only place they can get laid anymore. Kind of a weary and selfish interpretation of ďservice to Mankind,Ē but so it goes.
And thus the old queen is reduced to nothing but a mouth, yet no one wants to hear her pontificate anymore. So, Bertrude, itís the same lesson at the end of your long, lost weekend that you learned at twelve: suck, donít blow. But donít despair, dear, someone might yet throw you a bone, especially if you take out those dentures Ö just keep your lips sealed. Your withered stock will rally for fifteen minutes of funhouse fame before the seller shoots down your throat and cashes out. Youíll yet get a glimmer of the attention you crave, but no one will want to hear you whining about your lonely, horny ass then, trust me. They wonít even nod to you later when they pass you on the street.
The market has closed. Youíre so cleaned out.
A car pulls up at 3:27, stereo bass booming. Must be one of those tops in heat sniffing out Bertrudeís pushy, busy bottom. Carpe poonem. Make hay where the sun donít shine.
And so it goes.
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