Ernest Slyman lives in New York City. His work has been published in The Laurel Review, The Lyric, Light: A Quarterly of Light Verse (Chicago), the New York Times, Reader’s Digest, The Bedford Introduction to Literature (St Martins Press), edited by Michael Meyer, Poetry: An Introduction (St Martins Press), edited by Michael Meyer, and in the Young Women’s Monologues From Contemporary Plays: Professional Auditions for Aspiring Actresses, edited with an acting introduction by Gerald Lee Ratliff/Meriwether Publishing.. He is a playwright, poet, novelist, cartoonist and humorist. He was born in Appalachia—Elizabethton, Tennessee—and attended East Tennessee State University. Visit him here.

Recently I noticed in the Dramatist Guild magazine an interview section for playwrights. The most profound question asked is ‘What Do You Wear When You Write?’

I was intrigued by the nature of the question. It suggested wardrobe had special gifts to the playwright. A red hat, a pair of bedroom slippers, socks that matched your soul. What of loose fitting knitwear? Does it have a place in the playwright’s wardrobe. Good for a few scenes. One white blouse can write like crazy. Get the plot going. Kick the play like a jockey riding a thoroughbred in the Kentucky Derby.

Can't think of any question any more frivolous than this. You'd think they could come up with something more insightful. What do you wear on Opening Night? et al? Trouble is such a question(s) suggests shallowness. Yep, got my writing dress on. Got my literary socks. They give me the gifts I need.

I’ve never understood the gay men’s stereotypes of women. They believe the female receives gifts from clothes. A frilly white blouse can provide the necessary charm and beauty. The right pair of shoes will come to your aid. People will be so impressed by your new hat they will think you’re a new person. Intelligence is polished nails painted red. They speak of a woman’s beauty and intelligence. Eyebrow pencils give women kisses that last. One eyebrow pencil could help a woman write like Lillian Hellman.

The favorite dress will outline your play in no time. It may have trouble holding the pen or typing at your computer. Give it a chance. The redder the lips of a young woman the more likely she will write a wonderful play. Win the literary prize that’s given each each to the playwright who wears the prettiest dress.

Do gay men believe women have the advantage. Men in our society give them gifts, take them out to dinner. The flowers women receive never wilt. They live forever. The belief of gay men is that women possess many supernatural powers that men don’t have. It’s the gay man who recognizes the female as the source of much interest. The woman being the center of the world.

These superstitions gay men believe are true. Women can wear jewelry. Pearl necklaces. High heels, clip clop is the language of the female in our society. Listen to the clip clops speak their wisdom.

Got bracelets that jangle insights into the literary process. Long flowing dresses that could write the great American novel. Oh, if I could be a girl I would win the Pulitzer. It’s all in the breasts and high cheek bones. The dimples of girls could write like Tennessee Williams.

The way women move a source of great amusement among gay men. The hand quicker than the eye, lifted as though to balance on a high wire. The pretty eyes. Long eyelashes that could give you the love your mother never gave you.

The high voice of women, all covered with honey, a bountiful supply of compassion in the woman’s voice. The women possessing gifts that gay men seek more than anything.

It’s the dress. The thing that gives women the power. It can bless you or curse you. The dress knows who you are. The dress has no qualms about flying up when you walk. The wind doesn’t speak to gay men. It holds its tongue.

The more frilly the dress, the more sheer, elegant the wearer receives the many gifts that dresses hold for the one who wears them. Why not a gay man? Would it look like the gay man was trying to usurp the power of women. The power of the dress is well know in the gay community.

The dress has high expectations. You don’t offend the dress. You wait for the dress to speak to you. It has no interest in recognizing the ambitions of gay men who seek to know the power of the dress. How it believes in the straight life. Doesn’t give a fig for the gay life. Why should it?

The dress with its nose in the air. What moves the dress? What religion is this? The gay men seem to believe women in dresses possess the power of Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Victoria. Every dress wraps itself around the female and swallows her up. How lovely to think about. A gay man wonders if he can collect the same prizes if he wears a dress.

Not outdoors where eyes punch you in the face. Just around the house. Maybe on Wednesdays when dresses give men a sense of knowing. The knowledge that dresses give gay men is known only to them. They don’t share it.

Men shop in clothing stores for women’s apparel. The undergarments whisper the secrets of an ancient civilization. The Mayans knew a good thing when they saw it. The swish holding out a power. Giving the woman another voice, very mystical. Don’t let it tell you what to do. The swish is a simple soul. In a previous life, it was the sound of a Persian War canon. The things swishes say would break your heart.

The gay men know about the swishes. They collect them, take them home and put them in a glass jar. If you come over they might let them out. The swishes will sit in your lap. Hold your hand.

The girls in the gay men’s inner circle are made of sugar, spice and everything nice. Garlic rides a white horse. Chocolate breaks its promise. We all die in the end. The chocolate cake knows all about the AfterLife. The days are short and the nights are long.

The gay men love the female body. There are parts that remind the gay man where he comes from. Where he once visited. Didn’t like the neighborhood.

Aware of the incredible female intuition. They can see in gay men a comfortable place to go should they need the space. They see the gay man knocking on the gates of Heaven. Not the straight door, but a round one. The gay men enter. They dance and sing. Their mouths have orgasms, so do their feet. Their knees cry out, they feel the pleasure of lust. Lust is what gay men acquire from their stockbrokers. The stray cat in the alleyway knows as much. The street lights in Greenwich Village have seen many gay men making love in the park. Sometimes they speak to each other. Often words get in the way of hands touching other hands. When a gay man in the movies takes off his shoes you know he’s got other plans.

The gay man deems the woman a large part of the gay alliance with the perverted straight word. We stop showing our affection in public and perverted straight people show their respect for the gay community. We know the perverted straights have no ideas. No ears. They can’t accept the gay man’s lifestyle. Think it was invented by a rat from the sewer.

Don’t mention a gay’s name. Don’t out him. That’s like calling a spotted dog home for dinner. He’d rather hide in the woods. What’s the advantage of coming out? Everybody knows you’re gay. You never figure out how they found out. You body language, your voice never got over the garden fence.

The gay man finds in the female the eggs of a great Easter Egg hunt. Where would a child find it? Under a bush, behind the big stone, a mountain creek asking for you to sip. The minnows don’t mind you rubbing their backs.

Just being around women gives the gay man a certain validation. He’s crossed over to the other-side. Straight guys go there when they’re overtaken by the woman’s desire. Her moans strike the air and burst like fireworks. I just love the reds and blues. Gay men like to watch the woman’s face shoulder the blame for a perverted straight society. One that was made by insects and wild animals. You can hear the bark and cry when a woman walks by.

The gay man grateful for women’s approval. The woman understands the many variations of men’s love. The gay revolution began when the tree caught fire and the dark stubbed its toe on the moon.

Gay men observe the holy days. They always offer more than the other days. The holy days are Fridays and Saturdays. They love gay men. Wednesday would like to go to bed with a few gay men. Monday can’t get it up.

Gay men adore the female body. The shape most unusual. She looks like a folding chair. Her feet rest on the floor. Her heart beats like a bat flying from a cave. Her heart a rodent. The insects taste sweet. The dark inside the woman is thick, gooey. Don’t touch the walls.

The quiet that lives in the female is exquisite. It never interrupts anyone when they speak. The quiet sits with its hands in its lap. Why does everyone in the world love quiet? A hour of silence is worth a few pounds of gold. Take it to the bank. The quiet lies down in a bank vault. Hundred dollars bills respect the quiet. You don’t hear money talking. Maybe the occasional five dollar bill pops off.

Quiet reads only the classics. Gay literature has its place in a perverted straight society. They put gay magazines in the backs of porno shops where the gay magazines sulk and thumb their noses at straight guys who can’t tell the difference. The naked male asking the straight world to accept the penis as a good luck charm. A rabbit’s foot that will bring the world good luck. The penis speaks on special occasions. It billing rate is exorbitant. Higher than Elvis’ ghost who often makes appearances at rock concerts in Vegas.

Quiet hits the spot. You can’t buy it at the corner store. It’s not for sale. Only here and there quiet comes on the black market. Stick in your veins, die before you hit forty.

Quiet’s very well mannered. I wears a napkin when it eats lunch. Always the same thing. A bowl of fruit and chicken soup. The cracker are made from noisy Saturday afternoons.

Quiet hasn’t ever broken its promise. It remains steadfast. Hates the sound of loud trucks eating their lunches. Coughing and burping, giving the quiet its walking papers.

Quiet has four legs. Eight hands. It knows sign language. 8You can take it home with you. There are branches that grow long when she speaks of her affection for gay men.

All good things come from feminine charms. She will grant gay men entry into her world, if they say the secret word.

The long legs of a woman stretch all the way the moon. Her arms reach around the earth. Her fingers stroke the blue sky. Sometimes the starlight coos like an old man.

The eyes of girls full of heavenly bliss. Promises that young men may receive. Turn their lives upside down. The sexual intimations of a woman’s smile like a cool spring breeze that bears the scents of wild flowers picked on a hillside somewhere in the South of Italy.

The gay man in love with the stereotypes of the female species. The gay man enjoying the show. The availability of nude magazines devoted to female anatomy even in small towns where gay men grow up. The lumps in their throats expressions of adolescent yearning. One lump deserves another. Sometimes the lump go out on the town. They meet in various locals. The local dance in the parking lot of a big mall.

Females breast mere bags of boredom. They gave milk and now they’re dry. Yet straight perverted men will try and get the last drop. The boobs of the world have a union. They pay their dues. They sometimes slip out for a night on the town. The female breast having two legs, two arms. Two round heads, a chin that sits on the chest. You hear it wheeze like an old church organ. Who knows how to play that thing?

The bush leaping over the fence. Chasing the gay man. A sight like those men on the beach in Treasure Island. There’s jewels buried somewhere on the island. Let me see that map.

The vagina a young girl in the park, waiting for her sweetheart to drop by. The vagina and its loyal following. The gay man having no interest in the vagina, except for scientific inquiry. Seeing them all their lives. The lady full of the female blessings. How does she know what men are thinking? Do all women read minds? Do their dresses know how to drive men crazy? A gift like that would come in handy. Why not give the man the same powers that women hold?

The dress has its eye on men. It’s not fooling around. When young gay men come home from they put on dresses, make up. Their nose only shines in the dark for the one they love.
~ Chapter Two ~

Why is it gay men like to wear dresses? Did they receive an invitation from the female species. Try this on. You’ll love the way it moves when you do. The dress has the pretty face of a woman. It’s happy when a woman wears it. When a man puts a dress on, the dress is a bit confused. Did you mean to wear a dress? What got into you?

The dress gives the gay man many charms. His friends come over and gaze at him. The dress talks to them. It’s got beautiful things to say about all the gay men in Greenwich Village. Ask the dress any question you’d like. Let it all out. The dress will answer the gay man’s question. Dresses are friendly. They once ran around France catching the eyes of young men. They could worse if they caught gay men. The gay men enjoy the dresses company.

They’ve found the one garment in their closet that kisses and holds them. Will always love them. Take care of them. Give them a sense of who they really are. The dress has charms to soothe the savage breasts. King Kong never knew the delicate tenderness that dresses provide. One dress can save the world.

The dangling dress winking at the people strolling along the streets of Greenwich Village. A place where men wear dresses. Some carry a purse. The purse holds the afternoon sun. Those shiny sequins give gay men a certain undeniable charm.

The mouth of the gay man full of love and tenderness for the young girl who is admired for her feminine ways. Her hormones all wear frilly dresses and let me speak of her prissiness. A gift from Medieval times yet she wears it well.

The gay man assuming women possess a form of black magic. It can deny the man love. Change the way a woman looks at a man. Is he a man? He’s got a feminine voice. His walks kind of prissy. I just hope doesn’t wear lady’s underwear underneath his clothes. What’s inside him? A summer’s day? Wild birds flying in his head, looking for some place to build their nests.

The tongue of a woman is sharp as an axe. She’s polite in the company of gay men. She knows their minds have been shuffled like a deck of cards. All the queens pop up and dance around. Come out of their hands. Kind of prissy. The P word is seldom used in the gay community. It’s employed only by contract. If you want to use the word you need permission.

Women find places in gay men they’d like to visit. If they speak to gay men the women notice the enlargement of gay men. They’re ten feet tall. Guess the words of women have been doing that for centuries. Just now getting around to gay men. Women hope it isn’t too late. Women admire in gay men they affinity for the male species. Source of things the straight world has long forgot. Do gay men kiss women? And what do they get in return? The gay man’s lips touching the girl’s lips. Love unfolding its wings and flying toward the door. No thanks.

The rejection of straight love not amounting to much. All you’ve got to do is to place it in a garbage bag and carry it downstairs.

The female voice full of flowers. A few words spoken. The caress of a New England accent touching them all over. A tender embrace from a woman who grew up in Macon, Georgia. The most unforgettable voices belong to women employed as actresses. There are writers with voices like Mrs Dalloway. Sylvia Plath sleeps beside them in their beds. Jane Austen sleeps on her back. She doesn’t talk in her sleep. But once in a while a hum comes out. And the lights of Greenwich Village dance around the room.

The power of women owing to their smell. Men don’t smell like flowers. Though more and more gay men spray their necks and cheeks with the smells of Paris and Amsterdam. The perfume costs a leg and an arm. But it’s worth it. Gay men have no power to resist the smell of blooms collected from the fields of Amsterdam. Those bees know a lot about love.

Gay men emerge from the smells of their lovers. One smell has them by the arm. Another smell hugs it like a bear. You know you’re gay when the man you sleep with smells like spring in Amsterdam. You can almost see the wild ducks flying overhead. Oh, if only all men could smell like roses. Daffodils, tulips, carnations give their gifts to the gay nose. A powerful weapon. Are all gay men like hound dogs? They can sniff out love? The things odors says to gay men are all about romance. Do you love me?

Do you know what I like? I’m the woman and you’re the man. How does that grab you? The biggest mistake gay men make is assume the man who lives next door is a woman. She’s hiding his body. What’s her name? Does she believe in the power of lipstick. And would you please tell her I’d love to spend a night with her.

The gay men’s question on their lips remains flirtatious. It’s like a wild animal who gay men bring home from the zoo. The gay men’s question has its hands raised. It wants to know what gay men have to do to be accepted into society?

The transgender dilemma has twisted the straight world’s arm so much you can see them grimace. Scream. Is that a lovely sound? Like the bull fight in Spain when the beast gets stabbed by the matador. The blood squirts to the ground. The crowd loves the brutality. Hoping the uglier it gets the more gentle the company of men.

Some men are gay. The division depends on who wins the lottery. Get yourself a ticket at you local newsstand. The kisses in the dark don’t taste as sweet as those in the public. The sounds of two men kissing in Greenwich Village like the sound of spring. The cherry trees full of sunlight. The songbirds giving it their best. Watching the green fields dance under a blue sky.

~ Chapter Three ~

The man who lives with a woman inside him needs to make room for all her new clothes. The closet is choked. You hear it coughing when you enter the room. Too many dresses, blouses have nothing good to say about small closets.

The gay man believes the transgender man deserves compassion. Civil rights comes to those who demand them. The man who turns into a woman receives the accolades of gay men. The awards are handed out every time a man changes his sex. The transformation one of amazing effects. The man after taking hormones grows boobs. How do you that? Sounds like some magic trick?

The voices changes when the harmonies jump on their horses and ride around Greenwich Village. On Bleecker Street hearts turn when a voice blooms. You know it would like to go out with you. Voices love a good meal at an italian restaurant, maybe a movie afterward.

The man suddenly possessed with a high voice. It holds a bouquet of flowers in its hand. It sometimes makes you feel like you’re ten feet tall. The voice on its hands and knees crawls around inside you. Kisses you, the voice has lips like Joan of Arc, Cleopatra and Jackie Kennedy. Lady Di is the man’s eye, just dancing wildly to the music of your voice. Gay men have voices that hold up the streets of Greenwich Village. Shake the streets like old dusty rugs. The gay men go flying up into the air. They all land in Washington Square Park. Looking for a date.

The transgender man sees in the mirror his mother. How horrible. How do you live with that? She talks your mother. She has the eyes of your mother. What happened to cosmetic surgery? Can’t it get anything right?

The way transgender men walk isn’t clear. Their right leg belongs to a woman, the left leg’s all man. Loves baseball, football. Kick it high above the lights of the stadium. Watch the ball fall from the sky. Legs are dreamers. They all want to be arms. You know arms have the most fond. Fingers can touch you to the bone.

The perverse straight world looking at transgender women as Macy Thanksgiving balloons floating high, their bodies held to the ground by ropes held by strong young men.

What of the wind currents? Would the talk by perverse straight men and women keep them on them on the ground. Or would they let go. The giant balloon flying high, suddenly bursting into a song of air. The perverted straight world loving the sight of large Thanksgiving Day balloons. Why do transgender men think they look like women? They float high. They’re held down by ropes. Crowds admire them on both sides of the street.

A spectacle of transgenders. The parade moving up Fifth Avenue. The balloons all rising into the sky over Manhattan. Do the balloons know what poses to strike? Show off their felinity by jiggling their body parts? Do you like me? I once was a man, now I’m a balloon shaped like a woman. Can I give you a kiss? Can I invite you home to a hot meal? I’m seventy feet tall, but I’m not afraid of dating men no bigger than a grasshopper.

The poses must be practiced. The gay man’s fallacy is that no one can tell he’s effeminate. Though male hands seek the female hands will expressiveness. The nimble wrist falls forward. It kisses the air. The wrist’s one sweet darling. Fingers are dainty. They’ve got paint on the nails. Red has the power to tell you the most guarded secrets about women. Come closer. Let the fingers give you an earful.

Stand as though you were a flower growing in a field somewhere in Holland. Women adopt the poses of models in fashion magazines. They move like they were on stage at a fashion show. The catwalk is a place where they show their femininity. The sexy legs speak of Marilyn Monroe and David Bowie. David Bowie kept a little girl in his body. She came out when he performed. Did a little dance for his fans.

The same girl’s inside every gay man. She comes out everytime he talks. Sometimes you see her when you run into him in Greenwich Village. The perverted straight society gathers on Saturday night to take turns glaring at the effeminate men. They often have beards. They walk on their toes. Quietly. They’re brave. Greenwich Village is full of jazz, art, writers sucking on martinis in outdoor cafes. Look, there’s Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Dylan Thomas, Jane Austen, Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath. Sylvia’s got a thing for girls. She’s had enough of young men looking at her like she was an easy mark.

Greenwich Village full of prophets and fools. The gay man trying his best to live in an art colony like Greenwich Vilage. A place where men walk like women, talking like women, stand like women. The posing endlessly fascinating. You read body language that Henry Miller wrote down in his classic works. It isn’t dirty. But it catches your attention.

Once the word homosexual walk these streets. Let it climb the stairs. Let it belong like a fool in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. the subject has many places to sit. The pews are scented with the dew from Paradise. Puberty has gay tendencies, you know. The adolescent gay man emerges from the shadows of a long standing argument.

Homosexuality has no skin in the game. All it wants is to rise above of heterosexual oppression. It carries a law book in its purse. Indignation is now the national pastime. Hurt our feeling with harsh judgements and we breakout in hives. We vote democratic because the perverted straight society makes us sick.

The past has many gay men who had a good time there. The new world has many gay men in it. Aren’t we beautiful. Take a look. Hear us speak the language of the gay men’s revolution, in which sex has a pretty face. Biceps that call to question the meaning of sexuality. The gay man opening the pearly gates of straight love and entering to the trumpets of Gabriel. We have bodies. Unlike straight men. Our bodies differ in that they are for the man. The perverted straight men don’t share their sexual desires. They’re kept in a vault down at the bank. You don’t get to see them unless you have a key.

The modern gay man can fly. Jump over buildings. Homosexuality has started to sing like a bird. What is it that homosexuality wants for a straight perverted world. Maybe a cup of wine. The reasons that we all love. Two thousand naked men crowd into the question. They live there for decades. They speak of freedom.

Freedom isn’t having sex with your boyfriend. It’s a complex universe in which the gay man lives. The cosmos of homosexuality is dominated by planets and stars. There’s the moon that never gets its clothes off in time to enjoy the party

Love in a gay relationship doesn’t require loyalty. The perverted straight world believes we can’t be trusted. Gay love isn’t romantic. It makes the straights queasy. The kisses in Greenwich Village are what what drives the American economy over the cliff. The sex between men effect the stock market. Do you want to see the American dollar take a nosedive?

Gay love lasts as long as telephone conversation. It’s a cat playing with a rubber mouse. The gay lovers walk on the moon. They sing to the stars every night in Greenwich Village. Gay romance is all flowers and candy. Loves the tradition moaning and groaning. The bed bounces for each of us. The pillow has nothing to say but sweet things.

The sighs of gay men in bed run the city. The gay mouth standing up in bed and strolling from one end to the other. The breathless anticipation of a lover’s hand will decide the fate of civilization. It’s not a guest in nearby hotel for the elderly. It doesn’t eat much. It lives on cat-food. Wouldn’t you know it wore an old wrinkled raincoat everytime it goes out. Stands in line for tickets to a Marx Brothers movie in which it played the butler.

~ Chapter Four ~

Ask any gay man? If he needs to know something about the world, he merely turns to ask the first dress he sees. The dress knows everything. It’s quite adept at history, art and literature. The dress knows what men want. Ask any dress what men need more than anything. The dress has a good memory. Goes back centuries in which the dress was fond of men. They often wore dresses back before the blouse took over.

What trousers know doesn’t matter. The trousers don’t trust the dresses. The trousers speak a dead language. The language of old men. What they say would mean nothing. They’ve all got tongues which get stuck in their zippers. It’s a painful experience when the zipper clutches the unexpected intrude. The stranger with one eye and a neck long as a small child’s arm. The stranger than leaves by way of a backdoor. The zipper behind closing as though to wish it well on its long journey.

The great questions all wear skirts. Some questions wear nightgowns. Pearl necklaces. They stroll around the dance floor. Their dresses touch the floor, emitting a soft whisper. The things that dresses say would make a man cry.

~ Chapter Five ~

What are women to gay men? Substitutes, wooden bodies, high pitched voices that rub the flesh off the human race. The woman’s touch cannot melt the ice in a gay man. The best she can do is to chill the martini. The ice cubes rotate in a counter clockwise direction and speak of incredible spasms of joy.

The anus of gay males has answered the challenge. Give me your blessings. I am a holy man, long as a country road. Do you hear the birds and toads calling from deep within my monastery. You can’t enter the monastery without knowing the secret word. It sounds like a monkey chattering the Ten Commandments. Don’t worry the anus knows how to keep a secret. Isn’t going to spill the beans.

Nothing worse that a woman’s mouth. An elephant escaped from the zoo. A woman cannot open her mouth without putting out the fire that rages in the flesh of gay men. It’s the big splash. The surf of a great ocean comes to the aid of innocent gay men. So perfect they spray themselves with french perfume. Smell like peonies for the rest of the day.

The shape of a woman is all wrong. She’s missing the best parts. No thank you. However I admire your smooth silky legs. Lipstick gives the woman extraordinary talents. She can speak with her lips red as apples. The redder the lips get the more they speak of love. One lip is trembling, the other lips is always cool as a cucumber. The corners of a woman’s mouth are alluring to the straight male. The upper lips knows how to dance. The mambo and tango are its favorites.

Her eyes accept the invitations from knights in shining armor. They lift the earth up and over the mountain. Sunlight comes from the eyes of females. Their breasts speak french. Their nipples call to every gay man. What are we to do? We’re beckoned by nipples that don’t taste like a man’s nipples. Cherries and strawberries are what gay men deserve.

What is all this fuss about a vaginal discharge. What did the vagina do to get thrown out of the army? How embarrassing something like that could happen. Will it be able to get a job? Does it mean the end of the human race?
~ Chapter Six ~

The confusion arrives from an out of town bus. Sexual identity steps into town. It’s got a cowboy hat. A purse. It’s walking a alligator. Sometimes it barks at the moon. Mostly it’s the quick change artists. You tie it in knots. It gets loose by changing its form. It’s a bird. It’s an insect chirring in the grass. Sometimes it’s your father, your brother. The guy who lives next-door coming out of his house. He’s got a dress. He’s wearing high heels. Where’s he going at six o’clock in the morning? Or is there a party I wasn’t invited to. I hear music. Lots of laughter.

~ Chapter Seven ~

Gay relationships are more romantic than straight ones. Kisses last forever. The touch of each other brings a bliss that no heterosexual relationship would ever know. The straight life is a dull kiss, a handshake. A pat on the back. Eyes don’t believe in looking on the first date.

Ears of gay men are sensitive. They can hear whispers from Central Park when they’re down in Greenwich Village. Every whisper has four legs and you can ride into it like a horse drawn cart.

~ Chapter Eight ~

What does a gay man wear that will allow him into the perverted straight life? Nothing so bright as red speaks like a gay man. How about blue talking a mile a minute. It’s got a lot of things on its mind. Striped neckties can write a novel. They’re quite bookish, you know.

If I owned a shirt that didn’t defend me from those straight perverted shirts I would throw it away. I love socks that tell me I’m good looking, sexy. Got a lot on the ball. Shoes can’t give you much, just a kind look that gives you confidence. The shine on a shoe could ask a young gay man on a date. Take the young man to dinner. A few drinks. Shoes love to party. It’s where the foot lives the good life. And toes don’t mind being cooped up as long as they’re attached to a fine young gay man.

The toes of gay men are stupendous. They can read and write. Some of them know how to add and subtract. Multiply and dividing isn’t unheard of when it come to gay toes. They’re smart as the dickens. You might even say they’re underrated. Toes don’t get much publicity.

It’s fingers that get all the attention. The nose has to sneeze for anyone to know it’s alive.

The perverted straight men manufacture the evils of community, very unking and unsightly views held by contemptible men without eyes and ears. They truly are disgusting and grotesque as gargoyles. You come into society and it’s the first you see. They’re everywhere.

We cannot underestimate the damage of the perverted straight society. Gone are the manners, the clothes of the straight men looks shabby. They don’t know how to dress. They all look cowboys who just rode in from a lynching.

The crass hard nosed straights wear narrow neckties that went out during Herbert Hoover’s administration.

Money doesn’t ease the pain of discrimination. Biases have no eyes that can see what’s directly under their noses. Hatred carries a gun in its pocket. Its money grows on trees. It can spend a million dollars on advertising for justice. Shame is what the straight world washes its hands with. It loves to bathe in the blood of gay men. The bullies are the lies straight men tell.

Gone and never return the niceties of childhood. The adult male committed to change must fight the straight perverted laws. We are all victims of the perverted straight wickedness. They want to chop off our private parts. They’re certain we wouldn’t miss them.

Where does the loss of love and dreams occur more than in the gay community? We’re under pressure to marry now. How can gay men suddenly turn loyal to one man. Trust was invented by a perverted straight society. It’s an elephant show. One elephants grabbing the tail of the elephant in front of it, holding it as they stroll around the circus in a circle. The monkeys and clowns are all straight perverted circus employees.

The purpose the perverted straight society strives toward is to cry in public. Be a mess. Let your troubled life be known. The gay revolution was not fought for such small advantage. Pain is little more than an annoyance. The annoying straight world with its many large and ignorant laws. How they’d like to hide us in the attic. We’re believing less and less of what they say.