To The Gay Man Who Dumped Me, His Old Hag, For A Shiny New Ally
I get it. Gay men have had a lot going on these last 20 years: breaking down stereotypes, getting married and starting families, finally staking out their place in an oppressive, homophobic world. I’m happy for you. Really, I am. I even understand that you might not have as much time or need for an “old hag” like myself as you used to.
Funny thing is, though, you seem to have plenty of time for these newfangled “allies.” This latest one, we’ll just call her Ally, sure is a pretty little thing. I saw on Facebook that she rode on the float with you at last year’s Pride Parade. Somebody likes attention.
Is she the reason I hardly ever hear from you? Have I been traded in for a younger model? Put out to pasture? Thrown out like yesterday’s frumpy, middle-aged trash by the very man I have adored and doted on since my teens?
It would be very heteronormative of you to toss me out now. Am I using that word right? I’m sure Ally would know. She’s so hip and woke and all.
She probably never says anything wrong, like when you came out and I asked, “Are you sure?” Jesus Christ! I said I was sorry. It was the 1990’s in Southeastern Kentucky. I didn’t know any better. I was still confused from the Methodist Clown Ministry Summer Camp my parents sent me to.
What do you and Ally do together? Do you go on road trips and adventures? Do you trick her into thinking she wants to drive to Lexington to buy a Playgirl because “Wouldn’t it be so funny?” I guess not. Nobody drives for pornography anymore.
Look, hindsight being 20/20, I can see that things weren’t as mutually beneficial as I thought. My friendship hardly eased the crushing terror of being harassed, rejected, and assaulted that you were suffering. Maybe I should have noticed that you barely struggled while I shoved you into the friend/child/boyfriend role, like a parvo puppy in doll clothes.
Can you say you were giving 100%? If popular culture is to be believed, I should have been getting advice on make-up, clothes, and blowjobs. “Try Ann Taylor Loft,” is all you ever said to me. Really? That’s the best you could do? My mom shops there. What’s your next hot tip: Chico’s?
I bet Ally doesn’t even need blowjob advice or makeovers — young, beautiful hussy that she is. Sorry. I don’t know when I turned into such a bitter, jealous shrew.
I don’t begrudge your happiness. What kind of twisted monster would want you back in that lonely, hopeless closet just to give her life purpose? That would be like Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome or something. Wait a second. Is that why you kept telling me to watch The Act?
Of course, I’m grateful to see the moral arc move toward justice, but even positive changes can have unintended consequences. I fear that hags like myself might be another casualty of progress.
Do you remember what happened when our county ended alcohol prohibition 85 short years after the rest of the country? “Uncle Owen,” our favorite bootlegger and paylake proprietor, went out of business. Sure, the new liquor store is on a paved road, pays taxes, cards, and has a refrigerator. But what about Uncle Owen’s Paylake/Bootlegging?
Don’t you ever miss paying $10 for a six-pack of piss-warm Natural Light you wrestled away from a catfish yourself? That was fun, right? Don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss me? Please, I don’t want to end up like Uncle Owen: another useless, unwanted relic of the 20th century, like VHS tapes and dental dams.
Why don’t we hang out this weekend? I’ll go to the new liquor store and get us a box of Franzia. We’ll drink it ironically while we talk shit about our mothers and how we’re the real victims of their martyr complexes. We can watch Dirty Dancing and Steel Magnolias. Dolly Parton and Patrick Swayze in one day. What do you say?