is god gay? (Photo credit: the|G|™)
I said it is a moot point; to Zoey, my now only true and guiding friend but even she is a forbidden fruit. Actually, I don’t have the guts to even tell her that I cannot prevail over Professor Pathology-Mum Theresa!
Tell her what? Tell her that this is my life, Beckett Couvillion the third, a failed attempt at the Peace Corps, abolished try at AmeriCorps and no money in the bank account.
I’ve been browsing Craig’s list for some nude modeling gigs. Tapping into all the resources I can. I even played phone tag with the instructor of Not So Fine Art down at the Not So Technical local community college.
This is what I have so far:
I call my life a moot point… Like I know what that means. My parents mention that term over and over again when it comes to describing my life. So I’m assuming it is of some significance.
Everyone I know is accepted by their family. I’m not. Their family supports them. Mine would disown me. I’m not allowed to be gay. It’s why I can’t tell my mom right now. I don’t have the backbone to stand up to her. You’d think a woman that professed human rights at UNH could at least bring some of that knowledge home!
The homosexual breakaway almost happened a few months ago:
Mum was planning going to be in Atlanta from Weds-Saturday which meant daddy would let me do whatever I want. I had planned on having Kate to myself at the Shalimar. A little sleepover without the sleep. We had been there before. Nervous as hell I took ten sedatives, drank twelve cups of coffee, lied to Mother Theresa about going to Durham, so on and so forth.
What happens? Every time I came close to an orgasm the texts would come:
Ambien, Beckett Couvillion the third isn’t eating.
Ambien, what are you watching?
Ambien, when are you coming home?
Ambien, I hope you’re not drinking?
The second trip to the Shalimar never came and never went. I was enlisted to stay home and keep an eye on Daddy!
So dinner time on Auburn Street never revolves around:
Gay marriage, abortion, equal rights for homosexuals, my bi-sexuality and possible sexual identity crisis.
Dinner time around the table in the dining area which is separate from the library, which is apart from the kitchen nook, which is something out of the Not So Rich but Pretend to Be homes of Concord NH, circles around:
“Hey, I cleaned my room today. No worries about me ending up like my birthmother…isn’t that great?”
Mother Theresa retorts, “It’s about time. All the plates, bowls and cups are missing. And, your laundry is so soiled it’s sticking to the attic floor!”
I told my mom not to worry about the depressive hoarding I had taken too. And, she just ate dinner! Then out of nowhere she accused me of breaking the TV when she wasthe one doing something wrong with it and I fixed it! Wah, wah, wah!
The evening usually stands still until Mother Theresa hides herself away upstairs. Father Floyd watches life pass him by and grades papers on economics. And, I become more confused and extremely tired as to my place in the world and the talks that surround me like I”m a 2 year old!
Mother let me go. Homophobia is a dangerous disease and you are spreading it like wildfire at the dinner table. Eat some humble pie will ‘ya!
