by Larry Kramer
And anger for having to give you up. For being forced to do just what I blame every faggot for so doing. But loving you is just a bad example. My fantasies run wild, just like yours.
Fred lets his Dinky go.
He stands up, feeling tall and strong beneath these stars and moon. And the anger and the tears now join to strike his stomach. They bloat him so that the skin around his waist, his once “love handles,” which Y exercises had taken away, now appear once more.
He’s ready to explode!
On Dinky?
Well, perhaps that would be too cruel. Symbolically, perhaps. So let’s send Fred Lemish to void in the bushes. For these are Dinky’s, too. His garden of delights. His weeping tub of willows. His vines. His annuals still bulbing. In this his special world. On these bushes Fred now shits.
Good-bye old shit. I don’t know who’s shitting on whom. But I do know we’ve got to stop and change. One of these days we must stop shitting on each other. And go out into the world and try to live with a bit of pride. Whether they want us or not. But thanks. I’ve learned a lot from you. You had to go through me before I could come out the other end. You taught me things I needed to know: Try to stop being naïve. Try to grow up. Try to make a commitment to adulthood. Yes, you were my dress rehearsal for the real thing.
So thanks, Dinky. And thank you, Feffer. Thank you, Abe and Lester. Thank you, two clairvoyants, four astrologers, one palmist, and a couple of crystal balls. And thank you, Messrs. Cult, Nerdley, Fallinger & Dridge. And thank you, Algonqua, for the courage to go out and try yet once again.
And thank you, Fred.
Yes, it’s time to get angry, not at The World and Them, but with Fred Lemish.
Yes, we were the quintessential faggots, Dinky. One cock teaser and one doormat. Afraid of love. Using our bodies as barter instead of our brains as heart.
Dinky stirred and opened his eyes. He asked: “What time is it? George is coming. Have to meet George.” And then he slept again. Back to sleep again.
Yes, so long, Dinky. What did that fine old gentleman, Eric Hoffer, say? Anger’s a prelude to courage? It takes courage not to be a faggot just like all the others. And as that other fine old gentleman, Sam Johnson, said: Courage is the greatest virtue, because without it there can be no others.
Hey, I’m starting to be a great virtue.
All those disparaging, pejorative Reasons! Well, I’ve worked them through. The unexamined life is unlivable, old Socrates said. Well, I’ve examined. Now I must fight hard not to let them bring me down and back to thingdom. And what if none of them is the right one? Or there might be others. Yes, I’ve examined. Now it’s time to just be. Just like I have brown eyes. I’m here. I’m not gay. I’m not a fairy. I’m not a fruit. I’m not queer. A little crazy maybe. And I’m not a faggot. I’m a Homosexual Man. I’m Me. Pretty Classy.
A cleaner and wiser Fred Lemish now reenters his Champion boxer shorts and leaves his Dinky Adams. In his garden. His beautiful magical garden.
He walks down the length of Aeon. And out of The Grove. And back along the ocean’s edge. The sun is coming up. Blessing the new day. Fellows are everywhere. Still. Once again. Arm in arm. Arms around shoulders and waists. Everyone smiling. The dancing’s over for this night. Haven’t we shared a night of nights! A night of fellowship. We have danced and partied and drugged and Meat Racked and we have survived no sleep. Together. Together. Yes, we have braved and passaged all these rites together. Though we may not know each other’s names nor will we necessarily speak when next we meet.
The beach is filled with all my friends. All dressed in white. A huge white billowing tent awaits us. Someone is giving a Dawn Party. A Welcome the New Day Party. Strawberries and white wine and chocolate-chip cookies. All my friends. All sitting on the sand. Arms around each other. Touching. Holding. But not too close. Please no hassles or involvements. Sharing this moment. No one speaking.
Yes, all my friends are here. It’s hard to leave you. All this beauty. Such narcotic beauty. Yes, it’s hard to leave.
What I want is better though!
No. Just different. I’m going to have enough trouble changing myself. Can’t change everyone else too. Can’t change those who don’t want to change. I want to change. I must change myself. Be my own Mom and Pop. Allow myself the something better Lester never did. Be strong enough for Me. I feel better…
They all sit around in circles, on the white sand, the ocean at low tide, the laps thus gentle and far away.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
There are hundreds, thousands, passing the message of love from body to body, touching neighbor’s hand, then lips gently kissing, softly as those distant lapping waves, under disappearing stars and moon, and the rising sun, thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of handsome men, sitting cross-legged on the sands, celebrating this morning and this summer’s love.
Fred is here, and so is Mikie and Tarsh and Bo Peep and Josie and Dom Dom and Frigger and Fallow and Gatsby and Bella and Blaze and Sanford and his snake and Laguna beauties and Dick and Dora Dull and Bruce Sex-toys and B.L.T. and Irving and Hans and Timmy and Charlie and Ike Bulb and Alex and Tidgy Schmidge and Tony and Olive and Dennis and Laverne and Robbie Swindon and Morry and Hubie and Jefferson and Montoya and Lork and Carlty and Yo-Yo and Dawsie and Pusher and Tom-Tom and Maxine again Maxine and Feffer and Yootha Truth and Miss Rolla and Vladek and Cully and Midnight Cowboy and Lovely Lee and Garfield and Wilder and Harold and Anthony and Wyatt and Boo Boo and an Older Gent and R. Allan and Billy Boner, and the ghosts of palest Paulie and Patty and his Juanito and remember Winnie Heinz?, and Leather Louie, Lance Heather, Adriana, S.S. BERLINERS all, The Gnome, Derry, Floyd, Sprinkle, Tad, Kristos Rosenkavalier, Canadian Leon, Pinky and his cymbalettes…and and and the group keeps growing, friends, and new friends, joining every moment…
Fred stands and watches them. Yes, it’s hard to leave.
Then his eyes turn toward land.
There goes Dinky. Handsome Dinky. Such potential Dinky. That elusive Dinky. There goes Dinky, along the boardwalk, striding forth to meet the ferry, to meet his Georgia Peach, arriving on the Red Eye Special, there goes Dinky, striding forth, Cosmo on the leash before him, little lamb, to welcome George, good luck George, good luck all of us…
…yes it still hurts……there goes Rolex Submariner Number IV……yes I’m still scared……the group keeps growing, so many for our growing group, many many many millions who wish to welcome The Summer of Our Lives.
Two other discos opened last night. ContreTemps closed. Heavenly Garage looks to be a winner.
I’m 40.
Happy Birthday Me.
Larry Kramer is the cofounder of Gay Men’s Health Crisis and the founder of ACT UP. He is the author of The Normal Heart, which was selected as one of the 100 Greatest Plays of the Twentieth Century by the Royal National Theatre of Great Britain and is the longest running play in the history of the New York Shakespeare Festival’s Public Theater. He is also the author of The Destiny of Me, which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize and won an Obie and the Lucille Lortel Award for Best Play. Kramer’s screenplay adaptation of D. H. Lawrence’s Women in Love, a film he also produced, was nominated for an Academy Award. He is a recipient of the Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and was the first openly gay person and the first creative artist to be honored by a Public Service Award from Common Cause. His other plays include Just Say No and Sissies’ Scrapbook. He is currently at work on a new novel, The American People.
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Larry Kramer’s Faggots
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