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Edited on Tue May-19-09 11:04 PM by Lyric
A first draft:
Blameless
The starlings are black as midnight, black as the Tuesdays Ex’ed on my calendar that say Hello. I am your oncologist.
What a word that is.
My on-call ogist. Always there? No, I think not. My oncologist. Someone who understands the difference between an oncogene and a tumor suppressor gene.
Does it matter, really?
Biology 101, Dr. Caldwell is calling. Tell me about control. Tell me about The lack of it. Is there really a difference between saying YES to the wrong thing, and being unable to say NO to to wrong thing?
We call it cancer, but really, it’s rape.
The premise is the same. “Risky behaviors” are metaphors for blaming the victim for something ugly. Something we don’t want to discuss. When we are a straight woman, we say “Victim.” When we are a gay man we say, “Unprotected.” As if you deserve this.
Are there stigmas for touching an unwashed doorknob? No?
Shall we call the people who do so “whores” who get what they deserve? No? I have fucked many times without protection. Am I a whore
for being able to hide it? I don’t have the virus. What
makes me different? My ability to lie on white sheets without blame? To claim a virtue I don’t really possess? I am no better than the man in line before me, who fucked ONCE without a rubber, just once—
And his whole life is defeated. And his whole life is shit. Will he find a partner with the same strain that he carries? Not likely. Just another barrier to disgusting gay sex.
Well FUCK that. I have seen the last moments dripping down. I’ve seen the sores, the cancers, the Holy Shit This Hurts. I have witnessed it. I have lived it. I do not lecture.
I am only luckier. Nothing more.
We had the same man, Lynn and I. He in the morning, me in the afternoon. And is he to blame for what happens? If I am infected, no. If he is? Ask the Red Cross. Who is barred from donating?
We call out the names of our dead ones too soon. Twenty years or more, they can live if they can only afford. So what makes me different? We both get bent over a sofa and love it. We both
receive the offering with Hallelujahs. He, in his glory, me up something else. Where is the difference? Where? Grab my hair and make me scream your name. I love it.
And Patrick, what does he love? The same damned thing. Fuck him hard, he loves it, I love it. And yet— He is a whore, I am not. He is a pervert, I am not. He deserves it, I do not.
The virus unravels the mystery of our DNA. Is your Y chromosome so different than my double-X? Am I inherently better? Am I, unlike you, blameless?
To society, I am a victim, you are a sinner. I am normal, you are a perversion of nature. And all about where some asshole puts his dick. As if
I am a child, approaching the West Wind in fear, afraid more than a man would be. It takes away from me. It diminishes me. I am more of myself
than this.
Rest in peace, my love.
Rest.
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