It’s happened. It’s all happened. We could have stopped it, but we didn’t.
Oh sure, we’d been warned. Told in shrill tones of the perilous consequences, the slippery slope, the descent into moral madness that would surely happen if we insisted on charting this new course of selfish depravity. But we didn’t listen. You and I have always made a point of not taking seriously grown men wearing either sweater vests or gilded robes and crowns. Turns out that, unbeknownst to us, these seeming Cassandras were absolutely right, much as it pains me to admit it. Now all hell has broken loose. Our country is as good as Gomorrah. The four horsemen have arrived.
We’d decided, you and I, that—even though we should have rightly been shunned by polite and even impolite society because of our predilections for Madonna, meringue, and men’s gymnastics—we would flaunt our differentness in the faces of our betters and take advantage of a silly new law in the great state of New York that allowed our sort to give each other rings and health insurance, neither of which we should ever have been allowed! Oh how I wish we could put that plump, shiny, alluringly shaped apple back up on that tree. But we can’t. We’ve eaten that apple now. Fed it to each other while doing a gay-ass dance on the graves of our Founding Fathers, Jesus, and the late, great John Wayne.
It was not to be. Or rather, it should not have been. As soon as we slipped those rings on each other’s fingers and somehow lisped “I do” in that chapel at the city clerk’s office, the sky darkened, the clouds turned angry, and an awful bellow sounded from on high. Sure, it was hard to decipher what it was saying—it was pretty raspy—but the gist of it was that we had angered God immeasurably, and we—nay, our country—was about to pay a hefty price for our sins.
All of a sudden the ceiling of the City Clerk’s Office was sent spinning off into oblivion, leaving us cowering under the rain, hale, and hellfire that was filling Worth Street. We’d planned on walking up to Chinatown after the iniquitous ceremony to get a nice meal and celebrate our degeneracy, but we didn’t have a chance. Just as we were running out of the building and trying to hang a quick right on Center Street we were stopped in our tracks by the most monstrous site: it was a sea of nudity ahead. Office workers, policemen, secretaries, executives, Wall Street douches, waiters, bartenders, firemen, bodega owners, and all the rest of New York’s finest specimens of humanity, were all stripped naked and paired up by gender, doing unspeakable same-sex things to each other in the street, on the sidewalk, against dumpsters, hanging out of cabs. It was gnarly, except for the cops and firemen. Who needs to see that? Why do you have to flaunt it in front of us? I just don’t get it.
But we’d set it off. It was our fault.
We managed to duck into a cab and demand to be taken uptown before Armageddon took place or some shit. Ten minutes later we were in Times Square, having passed through the most tawdry and tenacious displays of homoerotic filth the whole way. Street upon street of sodomy. At every stoplight a pair of bare ass cheeks slammed against both windows before being whipped around, furiously slapped, and then… well, I don’t want to say. It’s not for me to say. Not now. Not anymore.
We got out of the cab, and Times Square was dark and demonic. Well, more demonic than normal. Hell hathed come to earth. I looked up at the giant television screens and on all of them CNN was showing footage of Sarah Palin and Megyn Kelly going down to each other’s digital disco. (Funny that all I could think about at the time was how great it was that CNN had finally gotten Sarah Palin to appear on their channel.) The shocking thing was no one was watching them. Everyone was too busy doing their own little… dance.
Well, you know the rest. Our marriage led to a complete abandonment of American morals, boundaries, and clothing. The Real Housewives of New Jersey shacked up with the Real Housewives of Orange County and started a new reality show called The Real Scissor Sisters of the End Times. Chuck Norris proposed to Sean Hannity. (Hannity accepted, flushed, crying, and naked with a raging boner.) Beyonce and Rhianna adopted a white baby. Mitt Romney got caught giving Newt Gingrich a donkey punch. Also, Bill Clinton got caught giving Newt Gingrich a donkey punch. (Basically every present or former male DC politician got caught giving Newt Gingrich a donkey punch.) So unseemly.
The greatest/dumbest irony, though, is that Rick Santorum, Mr. “Man on Dog” himself, ended up divorcing his wife, abandoning his kids, and moving in with his new lover, a Doberman named Dominic.
This is not what we wanted. We just wanted dignity. Respect. Dental. Hospital visits. But we should have known that these benefits weren’t for men such as us. Our lifestyle, it is too… seductive. Americans are a weak people, apparently, and can easily be sent into a tailspin of erotic same-sex escapades and/or domestic arrangements at the drop of a gay hat.
The sky is permanently dark now over our great nation and is constantly dripping with acid rain and sadness. All our friend’s marriages are ruined. Did you know that Latoya’s ex-husband now just spends all day hanging out at the men’s toilet in the Lincoln Square Cinema on Broadway? Yes, it’s true. And Sheila’s live-in boyfriend never leaves the gym locker room. Not even to see his children! Just stone cold looking for hot gay hookups wherever men are known to congregate. We can’t go out of our little railroad apartment in Brooklyn to get a cup of coffee without being offered a blowjob by some man or other. Ugh, no of course I haven’t taken any of them up on it. You know I’ve always said I’d only ever betray you for either Ryan Gosling, Aquaman, Michael Fassbender, or that fat Polish guy who runs the meat market on Graham and gives us the great deal on sausage—and none of them have asked me yet.
So now we sit, in our blown-out fourth-floor walkup, spooning cold ramen noodles into our lock-jawed mouths, waiting for the whore of Babylon or whatever to show up and escort us to our doom. (Maybe she’ll know where to score some weed?)
It’s like a nuclear bomb was set off. That bomb was us, my dear.
We shouldn’t be here. We’ve got to go back. Back to the simple times before you and I had it in our crazy little minds that we should stand before the world as husband and huhzband, before the paper-thin veneer that was blanketing the country in a deceptive but comforting charade of heteronormativity got ripped off like a Band-Aid and the entire nation lost its damn mind. Back when men like us were comfortably “other,” expected to live our flitty lives of poppers, promiscuity, and Priscilla Queen of the Desert and just be happy that we weren’t being gay bashed all day, every day, forever, by school bullies, churches, the government, hobos on the street, and Cracker Barrel. Don’t you long for those times now? Yes. Yes, you do. And I do, too. Because watching Mitt Romney suck off a Republican pollster while balls deep in Marcus Bachman in the West Village is something no man should have to see.
We have to go back. We have to go back!