The Homosexual I’m Most Afraid of

I once knew a guy who had a stern face, blank but condemnatory and spiteful, but more than that, his shield that he had swathed himself in reeked of daggers-drawn coldness and an air of “I don’t talk to you.” I’m afraid of him.

He may be nice when you get to know him, warm and generous to those not strangers, but there’s no opening there to even say hello. All I sense is a being that has taken his pain and marginalization and whipped it into a fervency of condescension and spirit less than giving and quite self-indulgent. It’s one thing to be arrogant and better-than-thou, but quite another when it’s humorless and when there’s no proof of a reason for this superiority other than callous and small self-importance. Give us grounds to bow, mate.

I’m afraid of him because I don’t see even a whiff of compassion. Nothing gentle, nothing kind. Nothing fluid, nothing radiant. No reason not to be judgmental. We’ve giving you what you give us. But he wanted attention. He wanted to be seen. And admired. His clothes were too tight, and the back of his smedium pants ostensibly showed either providential genes or terrific discipline at the gym. He was a flibbertigibbet in brawn.

Are you the guy who meets a nice bloke, a bit nervous, but laudable, who dismisses Nice with a: “Well, I’ll talk to you, if I don’t find anyone better.” Are you the guy that would hear screams down the street or see someone overdosing on a wild night and simply shrug: “Ho-hum, not my problem.” I’m afraid of him because as the world burns, you bring no beauty into it, other than what you were wrongly told.

For those in life that have constantly gotten the short end of the stick, I tend to think life makes you a few ways, but I wish he would have chosen that space of existence where you go about your way ensuring others don’t feel what you’ve felt. For humanity, it’s cruel not to.

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