"Portland's Meanest Gay" 

EVIL, SADISTIC ASSHOLE EXPLAINS WHY HE'S THE ONE

By Paul Kibble

THE WINNER OF "PORTLAND'S MEANEST GAY" CONTEST!

[Editor's Note: Thanks to all the bitchy, backstabbing, bilious gays and lesbians who entered the "Portland's Meanest Gay" contest. Unfortunately, you all lost to our hands-down winner PAUL KIBBLE. Paul will receive $100 cash money, an arm-load of gift certificates, and if any of you people think you can take it away from him--be our guest. But you might want to read his essay first... Brrrr...]

Portland's Meanest Gay? Fuck that. I am Portland's Meanest Faggot. You p.c. pieces of shit gotta problem with that? Then step outside! The meanest thing I've ever done? Oh, we'll get to that--in good time.

But first off, understand this (and you will understand): I don't want your "love," much less your "respect." I want your fear. And--if you're a straight guy--your ass, too.

No doubt you punkass bitches at the Mercury were looking for some stereotypical high strung, claws-out queen who delivers bitchy one-liners like Jack on that nelly minstrel show Will & Grace. Most so-called "mean gays" are like that--mean in a petty, nose-hair-pulling, schoolgirlish way: "Then I read that skanky ho for filth and the bitch didn't dare show her face in Silverado for a year." Booooooring shit that not even Jessie Helms or Rick Santorum finds too "edgy," much less offensive.

But exactly the kind of shit that appeals to all those responsible, sensitive, bland-as-oatmeal, whiney-ass pole smokers and carpet munchers from the Human Rights Campaign or whatever. You know, the ones who're always "building alliances with the straight community." Trying to win over their supposed counterparts in Heteroworld to the idea that deep down we're just like them! Fuck that boozhie accommodationist bullshit. Believe me, whether you're "gay" or straight, you don't want to be "just like me."

That's because I like playing for higher stakes. Straight guys, for instance--so-called "self-identified heterosexual males." I enjoy conning them into falling in love with me and then breaking their hearts. Think of a queer version of Dangerous Liaisons. I can get any cocksucker to throw her legs to Jesus, but where's the challenge? Nothing gets me hard faster than having some jock stud tell me, "I'd rather die than let some dude fuck me up the ass!" and then a year later ask me--no, beg me, "Touch that gland, Daddy!"

Usually, these punks are just coming out of a "bad relationship." Just as usually the "bad relationship" turns out to be mostly their fault because they're whiney, immature, self-absorbed pricks. Take "Dale" for instance, my most recent conquest/victim. He was 20 years younger than me and way better looking. (Most of them are, but that's part of the fun. It's the same thrill an ugly fuck like Marilyn Manson must get from bagging some hot chick.)

When I first met him, "Dale" was just coming out of a bitter breakup with his girlfriend of some two years. It turned out (surprise!) he had a history of "relationship issues"--and luckily for me, a fairly serious "chemical abuse" problem as well. First I just hung with him a lot. Spent a lot of time doing things with him he enjoyed: going to Blazer games, quadding, and--especially--getting wasted. I kept up with him every step of the way so that he would respect me as a "real man."

Then, after the basic male-bonding thing came the trust thing. "Dale" was looking for an older guy to play mentor/father/confessor to him. In short, a Daddy. He really started to "open up" to me. Told me his dreams, his fears, his deepest secrets. Told me how he felt "burned out" on women. Of course, as many American men do when you finally get them alone, one night he confessed that he wanted to know what it was "really like" to be with another guy. So a few weeks later we got high, and I showed him. At first he was nervous, but it was obvious that he liked what I did to him. We became regular sex partners as well as friends. After a couple months he finally let me fuck him. He loved it.

I went further with him. S&M B&D water sports freaky shit he's never even dared to dream about before. Of course, I could find this type of recreation any night at the Eagle, but the most exhilarating part of the game involves overcoming the straight neophyte's initial resistance--even revulsion--at these "deviant" practices. The next step is having them willingly embrace those practices. Toward the end, when I wore my "Daddy" cap, he wore a matching "Daddy's Boy" cap--out in public! What sage said, "A man is either some woman's husband or a whore?" By this point, "Dale" was definitely in the latter category. And he was my whore.

Then one night when he was really fucked up, he told me that he loved me. Wanted to be with me not just as a fuck buddy. As a lover. That's what I'd been waiting to hear. Getting him to open up his ass to me was one thing. Getting him to open up his heart was another. It was time to break it off.

So about a month later I told him it was over. I gave him the usual bullshit: It's not you, it's me working on my own "issues" need my space Hey, it works for everyone, homos and hets alike.

Of course, he was fuckin' wrecked. Shocked disbelief, yelling, throwing of household objects. And finally, the money shot: tears. In short, the same scenario as with his last ex-girlfriend--except with him in her role! At one point he actually whined, "How could you do this?" I just shook my head sadly, but all the while I was actually thinking: It was easy, bitch.

Has "Dale" managed to "heal" himself? Hopefully not. Unless they're some kind of pussyboy, emo mutant, all most straight guys need to "recover" from a breakup is a six-pack and a blowjob from the nearest hoochie mama. So I make sure it costs my straight "lovers" a lot more than that. The sacrifice of their traditional masculine identity, their heavy investment in "emotional honesty" and "trust"--hey, love hurts, like the man said. Plus knowing that when they hook up with some broad on the rebound, they're always wondering if someday one of those special tapes might show up in their mailbox. The tapes where they're riding my dick like a bronco at the Mollala Buckeroo. Hey, no big whoop: your "lady" might actually get off on it, homey!

Naturally, I recognize this kind of cynical, manipulative, control freak behavior is typical of a classical sociopath. It is also typical of a classic American heterosexual male. So I admit it: I am a faggot trapped in a classic American heterosexual male's body. A terminally horny, lying, two-faced dick. It's freaks like me who give sodomy a bad name. And I fuckin' love it! Because I am a certified, 24-karat, 100% pure asshole who looks at most straight men the way most straight men look at women: as shanks of beef hanging in a butcher shop window.

Oh, and a throw down to any straight guys who may be offended by this. Remember homophobe-slash-closet freak Eddie ("I really thought she was a girl") Murphy's line from that shitheap of a movie Beverly Hills Cop? "I'm your worst nightmare: a nigger with a gun." Well, all you "gay"-baiting politicians, "gay"-bashing frat boys, and "gay"-dissing wannabe gangstas out there, I'm your worst nightmare: a faggot with a black belt. Bring it on, y'alls. First I'll fuck you up--then I'll fuck you. Ha!

And, gosh, yes, I know this kind of sick game is self-perpetuating and will never bring us closer to Universal Peace and Understanding. But goddamn, it feels good.

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