poultrymunitions's review
5.0
in which julio loses his goddamned mind about mm (again).
republished in light of recent events; this constitutes my response.
like, you'll read some of these books, right, and you'll come out of them with iron-clad guarantees that gay men aren't gay men without pain like this; that gay men express love like this; that gay men have sex like this, in fuckdungeons like these, and sometimes with a were-chinchilla—
and mostly it's just drag.
just a bit of fun.
but also an expression of something more.
it's someone else's powerlessness and fear and brokenness, dressed-up to look like mine.
loneliness.
but not mine.
revenge. but not mine.
for different crimes than mine.
and love!
oh, love.
but so rarely mine.
those fucking books, man.
the worst of them?
make me feel alone.
make me feel used.
make me feel invisible. and ugly. and small.
and sometimes the anger roars up inside me like a riot.
because some of these authors don't shut up, you know?
with the endless blog posts; the endless tweets; all the white muscletwinks necking on facebook, all day long—omg michael stokes banned again, such injustice, can't a body enjoy a little faggotry now and again without these stupid net-nannies ruining all the fun—
and i feel it in me. this... sense of being askew.
from them.
from all of them.
i am an Incorrect Gay.
always have been.
i used to keep it a secret.
—shut up! i totally did.
for a while.
but these days, i'm just like...
...so be it, bitches.
the thing is, it's just harlequins.
carnival.
like the carnivale di venizia.
a celebration of carnality.
...a celebration of someone else's.
people got-up in costumes, for reasons of their own—costumes that happen to look a little bit like human beings, but mostly not.
and some of those authors...
look here, they'll say, i am an ally; here are my super-special thoughts on equality; here is my rainbow widget—it's animated! click jake bass to make rainbow glitter erupt from his butthole; also, here's my latest epic about a boy who just needs a ball-gag in his mouth and a horsewhip shredding his ass to feel loved—
haha, yeah, right.
or, like—sometimes?
for some gay people, i think?
a lot of them, even.
just not so many as you'd think from spending ten minutes on amazon.
looking at the exploitey covers of exploitey books.
stories that are not true.
stories that use gay men like puppets, in the most twisted version of 'the lonely goatherd' you or your hoydenish governess have ever seen.
fun stories, sometimes.
but not my stories.
not mine.
shut up, i'll think.
you just shut the fuck up.
sometimes i am filled with bitterness.
you're not me.
and i taste rejection.
the things you make are not mine.
how can these people claim to be my my ally—my goddamned friend, right—and spend all their time objectifying me, whitewashing me, and/or abusing me for the sake of a little bonus color in their incompetent romance novels?
what the shitting shit kind of friend is that?
you'll still catch me reading them all the time, though.
those fake-assed ally authors. and their fake-assed ally books.
still catch me reading them.
being wounded all the time.
over and over.
because i'm stupid, and stubborn, and maybe still hopeful.
but mostly stupid, i guess.
until—once in a while—i find one.
one like this book.
and then i don't care so much.
for a little while, anyway.
oh, what does it matter, eh? the posers—the fucking allies—they can keep their shitty books.
the books that break the promises lonely people need them to keep.
let them have their fun; let them tell their lies about nobody-like-me.
all those happily-ever-afters that will never, ever be mine.
fuggeddaboudit.
so long as i have stories like this one, yea?
books like these.
characters like these. words like these.
evidence.
that somewhere, out there, there's another heart like mine.
relentless, this book.
in its honesty. and its embrace of pain; of humiliation; of cowardice.
and of compassion.
especially that.
grimly hilarious, too.
it's like a scarab beetle:
barbed, armored, terrifying.
yet still glimmering with a dark iridescence.
beautiful.
so very beautiful.
and most of all, mine.
_________________________
please note:
so, like: the works, basically.
some of you will remember me previously ranting and raving about such things in the shitty mm novels i lazily excoriate above, and may be wondering what's different about this book that makes these themes tolerable to me this time.
it's...
see, it's just like that scarab.
safely tucked beneath that ghastly armor are a pair of huge, beautiful wings, ready for those glossy panels to split apart so they can unfurl and take that heinous-looking bad-boy wherever he needs to go on his terrifying daily rounds.
amazing, right? some species are as big as a human hand.
so. yeah.
sometimes, a book can lift you up, even if it's as ugly as the horrendous cover on that thieving huckster tj klune's shitfest of a novel.
this book had wings.
and for a little while, they let me fly.
republished in light of recent events; this constitutes my response.
like, you'll read some of these books, right, and you'll come out of them with iron-clad guarantees that gay men aren't gay men without pain like this; that gay men express love like this; that gay men have sex like this, in fuckdungeons like these, and sometimes with a were-chinchilla—
and mostly it's just drag.
just a bit of fun.
but also an expression of something more.
it's someone else's powerlessness and fear and brokenness, dressed-up to look like mine.
loneliness.
but not mine.
revenge. but not mine.
for different crimes than mine.
and love!
oh, love.
but so rarely mine.
those fucking books, man.
the worst of them?
make me feel alone.
make me feel used.
make me feel invisible. and ugly. and small.
and sometimes the anger roars up inside me like a riot.
because some of these authors don't shut up, you know?
with the endless blog posts; the endless tweets; all the white muscletwinks necking on facebook, all day long—omg michael stokes banned again, such injustice, can't a body enjoy a little faggotry now and again without these stupid net-nannies ruining all the fun—
and i feel it in me. this... sense of being askew.
from them.
from all of them.
i am an Incorrect Gay.
always have been.
i used to keep it a secret.
—shut up! i totally did.
for a while.
but these days, i'm just like...
...so be it, bitches.
the thing is, it's just harlequins.
carnival.
like the carnivale di venizia.
a celebration of carnality.
...a celebration of someone else's.
people got-up in costumes, for reasons of their own—costumes that happen to look a little bit like human beings, but mostly not.
and some of those authors...
look here, they'll say, i am an ally; here are my super-special thoughts on equality; here is my rainbow widget—it's animated! click jake bass to make rainbow glitter erupt from his butthole; also, here's my latest epic about a boy who just needs a ball-gag in his mouth and a horsewhip shredding his ass to feel loved—
haha, yeah, right.
or, like—sometimes?
for some gay people, i think?
a lot of them, even.
just not so many as you'd think from spending ten minutes on amazon.
looking at the exploitey covers of exploitey books.
stories that are not true.
stories that use gay men like puppets, in the most twisted version of 'the lonely goatherd' you or your hoydenish governess have ever seen.
fun stories, sometimes.
but not my stories.
not mine.
shut up, i'll think.
you just shut the fuck up.
sometimes i am filled with bitterness.
you're not me.
and i taste rejection.
the things you make are not mine.
how can these people claim to be my my ally—my goddamned friend, right—and spend all their time objectifying me, whitewashing me, and/or abusing me for the sake of a little bonus color in their incompetent romance novels?
what the shitting shit kind of friend is that?
you'll still catch me reading them all the time, though.
those fake-assed ally authors. and their fake-assed ally books.
still catch me reading them.
being wounded all the time.
over and over.
because i'm stupid, and stubborn, and maybe still hopeful.
but mostly stupid, i guess.
until—once in a while—i find one.
one like this book.
and then i don't care so much.
for a little while, anyway.
oh, what does it matter, eh? the posers—the fucking allies—they can keep their shitty books.
the books that break the promises lonely people need them to keep.
let them have their fun; let them tell their lies about nobody-like-me.
all those happily-ever-afters that will never, ever be mine.
fuggeddaboudit.
so long as i have stories like this one, yea?
books like these.
characters like these. words like these.
evidence.
that somewhere, out there, there's another heart like mine.
relentless, this book.
in its honesty. and its embrace of pain; of humiliation; of cowardice.
and of compassion.
especially that.
grimly hilarious, too.
it's like a scarab beetle:
barbed, armored, terrifying.
yet still glimmering with a dark iridescence.
beautiful.
so very beautiful.
and most of all, mine.
_________________________
please note:
Spoiler
this book has a long list of triggery shit in it. likeSpoiler
rape, fatphobia, abandonment, infidelity, drug abuse, 60's-era racism, 70's-era racism, basically all-era-racism bcuz set in the american south, wildly unhelpful therapy sessions, cancer, death, physical abuse, a suicide attempt, and even anaphylactic shock.so, like: the works, basically.
some of you will remember me previously ranting and raving about such things in the shitty mm novels i lazily excoriate above, and may be wondering what's different about this book that makes these themes tolerable to me this time.
it's...
see, it's just like that scarab.
safely tucked beneath that ghastly armor are a pair of huge, beautiful wings, ready for those glossy panels to split apart so they can unfurl and take that heinous-looking bad-boy wherever he needs to go on his terrifying daily rounds.
amazing, right? some species are as big as a human hand.
so. yeah.
sometimes, a book can lift you up, even if it's as ugly as the horrendous cover on that thieving huckster tj klune's shitfest of a novel.
this book had wings.
and for a little while, they let me fly.
More...