By Natty Soltesz
Start by standing in front of the mirror. It’s important to free your mind, so think: Your body could be better—you should work out. Then know: If you joined a gym, you’d stay motivated for a week—a month, tops—and then you’d quit. So why bother?
Teeth could be whiter. Cock could be bigger. Beyond that, though, study your mannerisms. Slight lisp? Short stride? Hair too perfect or not perfect enough?
All of these things are important, especially if you want to get laid, and surely you do—you’re gay. You’re sex-obsessed and you fuck indiscriminately. And even if you aren’t fucking anybody, you’re surely thinking about it.
Remember this around relatives, workmates, people with small children. Nephews, young students—boys who are just beginning to bloom. Their parents know what you’re thinking. You can’t wait to get your hands on that impressionable flesh; you want to pound it into submission, so it’s soft, malleable, ready to be molded into a replica of yourself.
The gay agenda has little to do with social acceptance or pride—it’s about sex. Pure selfish hedonism. To you, morality is a thing of the past.
You probably have HIV (don’t even try to pretend it’s something other than a gay disease), which you contracted despite the fact that it’s completely preventable. You probably have genital warts and herpes and are on your fifth round of crabs. This is par for the course. Let’s just come out and say it: You deserve it.
Why? (You’ve got to be kidding me.). Because you weren’t careful enough. Because you don’t have self-control. Because you can’t admit your culpability.
Maybe you’re a self-identified bisexual, or worse, you label yourself “queer.” Give it up, this notion that sexuality is fluid, or permits a plethora of activity outside the bonds of standard, binary forms of attraction. You’re a faggot. Own up to it.
Of course, if you like to fuck other guys, it’s not the act itself that’s turning you on, other than the satisfaction you get from symbolically possessing masculine aspects that you’ve denied in yourself. (For this we can surely blame your father, who never taught you to play baseball.)
Hey, maybe you and I can devise some semblance of a relationship and pretend that we’re in love? Maybe this will provide a brief respite from the crushing knowledge that we are, in fact, über-narcissistic men-children, forever slaves to a thumb-sucking mommy complex, destined to die in loneliness and despair because we can never love anyone as much as we love ourselves?
Anyway, we won’t bother with condoms. Do you really, ahem, respect yourself enough to try and protect yourself from a disease that—heavens forefend—you don’t already possess?
Please. Surely anyone would consider it an honor to receive an STD that might hasten their departure from a world in which they attempt to normalize behaviors that are obviously unnatural, a world in which they exhibit a denial bordering on psychosis, a world in which they do not see that men were given a penis and women a vagina for a reason, a world in which homosexual behavior violates the very fabric of human existence and the universe. Sex isn’t supposed to be fun.
But you willfully ignore this and go on with your fetishist and sadomasochistic games. Sure, tell yourself that you’re only role-playing, when deep inside you know that the very things that turn you on are a mirror of your hatred for yourself. You want to get slapped around because you deserve to be slapped around—you want to be punished for the sinful life you’ve chosen (yes, chosen) for yourself. You fetishize straight guys, masculine guys, because in your heart you know that that’s what you’re supposed to be.
So go ahead—cum. Enjoy that fleeting moment of pleasure.
Isn’t it depressing to think of all that you’ve just wasted? Instead of taking part in the beautiful creation of life, you’ve resigned yourself to a state of suspended adolescence in which you espouse the futile and vile notion that the gay “lifestyle” is somehow “normal” and “acceptable.”
Your precious seed of life has become little more than excrement, to be eventually shat out of one’s bowels and cast into the sewer, the sewer where our kind most assuredly belongs.
But then you already knew this, all of this, and more.