SinthiaTV
12-05-2008, 06:52 AM
(From radio personality Cary Harrison at www.goharrison.com)
Yesterday, on the corner of Havenhurst and Santa Monica Blvd. in gay West Hollywood, Stewart, the admitted "right hand" to the Bishop of the Mormon Church, skulked out of the gay Thai Massage parlor--famous for happy endings from its team of giggling twink masseurs. I was having coffee at the neighboring coffee shop when Stewart ejected through the doors, freshly probed and radiant.
He then sat at a neighboring table to yap nervously on an incoming cell call, upright and doughy in his chair--flab and sweat nervously soaking through his t-shirt; moist palms gripping the armwrests. After he'd hung up, he began eavesdropping on the private planning conversation I was having about LA's burgeoning gay activism. "Stew" said he couldn't help overhearing and wanted to explain the Mormon position, since we clearly didn't understand. Meanwhile, behind me sat his shiny new Range Rover which chirped as he remembered to auto-lock its doors. Stew explained that as the "right hand" of the bishop, he was in charge of executing the high ideals of Mormon founder, Joseph Smith (whom history records as notorious for being repeatedly yanked from brothels during a lifetime of sex addiction).
Stew, as he invited me to address him, began with the predicable vomitus of how much he loves his wife and the level of purity with which he conducts his sin-free life. The level of hypocrisy would have been laughable were it not for the unplanned serendipity with which he'd positioned himself in front of my eager scrutiny. Typical of someone who feels guilty and thinks they may have been busted somehow, he began blathering a litany of scriptural nonsense--desperately selling us, no doubt, on his unwavering righteousness--lest his unsavory afternoon dalliances leak back to His Excellency. The sheer hypocrisy of this burlesque was nothing more than gonorrheac Shakespeare.
For 90 minutes I talked to Stew. He declared my being gay was purely a bad choice (much like his choice to get jerked off in a gay massage parlor?). This kind of conscious denial makes it unreal enough to be able to dismiss your OWN behavior as a kind of fleeting whim. In short, if "gay" isn't really real, then having gay sex can't be real, either.
Stew admitted that on one lonely night after his wife (whom he loves so, so, so, so much!) had retired to bed, he found himself lost while driving around LA--ending up through some Mapquest misfortune, no doubt--in West Hollywood at the gay bar, Rage. He in a red-faced zeal went on and on about how he didn't know it was a gay bar until some time later. Perhaps after some serious suction of another man's naughty bits, he may have wiped his chin and formulated the notion that this was a gay bar. We can only assume a similar delay in awareness when applying gauze and Bactine to his freshly aspirated anal gland from the wildly adequate Thai massage.
Here's my quandary: Stew is hellbent on hammering the gays down to a nubbin, wiping us legally out of existence, and seeing all that we are vanish from the face of the earth. At his high level in the church hierarchy, he has unique access to policy and to the execution church practice. This makes him particularly dangerous--much like Cardinal M. of Los Angeles, who is also said to enjoy the "love that dare not speak its name". I have Stew's cell number--an even swap for my business card which makes me now vulnerable to the gnashing teeth of the Mormon church. Do I release this globally as he's an "official", responsible for widespread damage and misery, or do I respect his closet, though he'd just emerged with squeaky buttcheeks from a round of adipose hokey-pokey?
Yesterday, on the corner of Havenhurst and Santa Monica Blvd. in gay West Hollywood, Stewart, the admitted "right hand" to the Bishop of the Mormon Church, skulked out of the gay Thai Massage parlor--famous for happy endings from its team of giggling twink masseurs. I was having coffee at the neighboring coffee shop when Stewart ejected through the doors, freshly probed and radiant.
He then sat at a neighboring table to yap nervously on an incoming cell call, upright and doughy in his chair--flab and sweat nervously soaking through his t-shirt; moist palms gripping the armwrests. After he'd hung up, he began eavesdropping on the private planning conversation I was having about LA's burgeoning gay activism. "Stew" said he couldn't help overhearing and wanted to explain the Mormon position, since we clearly didn't understand. Meanwhile, behind me sat his shiny new Range Rover which chirped as he remembered to auto-lock its doors. Stew explained that as the "right hand" of the bishop, he was in charge of executing the high ideals of Mormon founder, Joseph Smith (whom history records as notorious for being repeatedly yanked from brothels during a lifetime of sex addiction).
Stew, as he invited me to address him, began with the predicable vomitus of how much he loves his wife and the level of purity with which he conducts his sin-free life. The level of hypocrisy would have been laughable were it not for the unplanned serendipity with which he'd positioned himself in front of my eager scrutiny. Typical of someone who feels guilty and thinks they may have been busted somehow, he began blathering a litany of scriptural nonsense--desperately selling us, no doubt, on his unwavering righteousness--lest his unsavory afternoon dalliances leak back to His Excellency. The sheer hypocrisy of this burlesque was nothing more than gonorrheac Shakespeare.
For 90 minutes I talked to Stew. He declared my being gay was purely a bad choice (much like his choice to get jerked off in a gay massage parlor?). This kind of conscious denial makes it unreal enough to be able to dismiss your OWN behavior as a kind of fleeting whim. In short, if "gay" isn't really real, then having gay sex can't be real, either.
Stew admitted that on one lonely night after his wife (whom he loves so, so, so, so much!) had retired to bed, he found himself lost while driving around LA--ending up through some Mapquest misfortune, no doubt--in West Hollywood at the gay bar, Rage. He in a red-faced zeal went on and on about how he didn't know it was a gay bar until some time later. Perhaps after some serious suction of another man's naughty bits, he may have wiped his chin and formulated the notion that this was a gay bar. We can only assume a similar delay in awareness when applying gauze and Bactine to his freshly aspirated anal gland from the wildly adequate Thai massage.
Here's my quandary: Stew is hellbent on hammering the gays down to a nubbin, wiping us legally out of existence, and seeing all that we are vanish from the face of the earth. At his high level in the church hierarchy, he has unique access to policy and to the execution church practice. This makes him particularly dangerous--much like Cardinal M. of Los Angeles, who is also said to enjoy the "love that dare not speak its name". I have Stew's cell number--an even swap for my business card which makes me now vulnerable to the gnashing teeth of the Mormon church. Do I release this globally as he's an "official", responsible for widespread damage and misery, or do I respect his closet, though he'd just emerged with squeaky buttcheeks from a round of adipose hokey-pokey?