Trapped in Each Other’s Genitals
by Regis Boff
Candidly, I wasn’t sitting around feeling sorry for gays and lesbians before it was brought home to me that our government was mean to them. Now that I get it I come easily on board with marriages and Vanity Fair covers.
On the other hand, I selfishly don’t want my ideas on homosexuality to change. I have numerous socially unacceptable, but altogether exemplary reasons for my condition and I will, at some risk, try to explain some of them.
I have to my satisfaction resolved that only gay men can be genuinely kind and talented. Heterosexual men can be either one or the other, but never at the same time.
Women, on the other hand, all come with saddlebags of kindness. I think of it this way because it is a strain to carry unselfishness unavoidably throughout your life. This condition feeds seamlessly into my perverse conclusion that most women, over a certain age, and particularly if they have had more than three children, are lesbians.
History has spent much of its time beating this recognition out of women, so most who read this will be too frightened to agree, but it is so. Women never allow silence to invade their relationships with other women because it would remind them of men, and this, they somehow understand, would lead to a kiss in exactly the same way it often does with a man.
Men seldom communicate with each other unless the subject is really big, like the universe or the Pittsburgh Steelers. Women have no big subjects. Women are not philosophers. This fact has always confounded me because I know a very reasonable hypothesis is somehow hidden in it. It might be that women are by nature, simply trivial. It is, however, certainly plausible that all philosophy is bullshit. This is just one of the open questions in my life.
This “trapped” business of genders often leads me to some very dangerous contentions. I have carelessly, for instance, formulated that every great female artist most likely is only a man confined accidentally in a female. Conversely, or just perhaps, all art might be the female essence enduring happily inside gay men. The mind boggles.