I was visiting a blog the other day when I came across a cache of lesbian poetry. What followed was curious – the poet had tagged every poem with her sexual identity, even when it was indiscernible what that had to do with the poem itself.
If all you have to say consists of your sexual dysfunction, isn’t that simply convenience? It’s like people into scenes; this year, they’re goths. Next year, they’re emo. They need some banner of identity to carry and if they’re mired in same-sex attraction, then that becomes their scene.
What if the rest of the world acted the same way? Can you imagine the endlessly vapid conversations? “Hi, I’m Terrance, and I’m a heterosexual.” “Hi, I’m Tabitha, and I like guys.” “Hi, I’m Fredrico and I’m into girls.” If you want to make an issue of it, maybe comparing yourself to other successful poets will give you a clue. Perhaps this is something that the great poets of history had somehow forgotten about? Perhaps Tennyson should have celebrated being straight instead of wasting his time with chivalry and Christianity? Those that history remembers don’t focus on themselves.
Robert Stacy McCain once wrote on the transformation of girls into lesbians. It usually starts with insecurity brought on by a lack of self-confidence; girls then look to media images of how women should be and think that they will never measure up or don’t want to be that. Then they try to have relationships with guys, bringing their anger and discontent into them, and they fail. Never addressing the root of their problems, eventually they become bi, and lastly, lesbian.
This is fueled by the Tumbler echo chamber of other hurting and broken women who have convinced themselves that they know what men want, they can’t be it, and so they hate men. Their mindset progresses from a poisonous peer group to full-blown mental disorder over time, as everything in their lives becomes a self-justifying defense of their sexual dysfunction. It is no coincidence that the founders of feminism were all women dealing with atypical circumstances who consistently made bad choices and were usually mentally unstable.
In that sense, I guess it makes sense that lesbians would spend their entire lives talking about their disorder, because they have built their lives around it. Like Molech, it is a cruel deity that asks too much of them and so they are unwilling to leave it. There is life out there, a glorious and fulfilling life, but all they can see is white bread, suburbs, Stepford Wives, and 2.5 children. All they can dream is jocks, jerks, womanizers, abusers, pornographers, and brutes. Like I once did, all they can see are stereotypes, not individuals, and they cannot understand or accept that anyone could think differently than they. Their imagination has failed and their empathy has fled. They do not understand that the river named Man and the river named Women are wide and include many different character traits.
They will suffer through their lives,
Self-immolating, imprisoned in lies.