Homophobic

A Story by Jess

Eminem comes to terms with something that has been on his mind for a very long time.

He doesn’t really understand why he does it. The word just comes naturally, he assumes. Years of being absorbed within a society where the word was tossed around like a blunt can tend to desensitize a person. At first he wondered subconsciously why it made him so upset that everyone picked on him. It was about the skin color, right? Single him out because he’s the white guy, he’s different. If he’s different from every other rapper racially, than he’s different from every other rapper conceptually, right? Wrong.

He always said whatever was on his mind. Whether it was politically incorrect, misogynistic, scandalous, hateful or boarder-line retarded- he was going to say it. Better yet, he was going to continue saying it the more people began to hate it. Spreading it like a plague that couldn’t be stopped until society ceased looking for a cure and just dealt with the benign tumor that was his poetry. One might laugh at the concept of “poetry” being referred to his music. Lyrics like that weren’t poetry. Calling a person a derogatory name wasn’t poetry. Blasphemy. Sometimes he agreed.

To be honest, he never thought it was a problem. Scratch that. He never thought it was a problem, to be perfectly dishonest.

There were times where he would cry himself to sleep at night and wonder how long he was going to hide it. How long would it be before the questions stopped, and he could give an answer. How long would it be before he got past his painful childhood memories to tell someone. Oh someone. Somewhere. A Romeo perhaps? He always liked playing Juliet. How long before he could tell someone he was the exact same thing everyone thought he was “afraid” of.

It made him wonder why he ever lied in the first place. It was like tiny spiders creeping beneath his skin. The feeling was so unnerving that he just wanted to leave. To get up and leave the awkward and painful feeling. But it clung to him. Like a vice. Do you know how hard it is to cut thousands upon thousands of spiders out of your own flesh without causing you serious bodily harm? Even after they’re gone and you continue to walk the streets, as you keep a plastered face of impassive protest and a shield of thoughtless knowledge, you cringe every time you feel an itch. You believe those spiders are suddenly coming back to haunt. Seeking revenge to crawl upon you once again to finish what they started.

He still wasn’t past the cutting part. He stares at his right wrist occasionally, wondering if he regrets it or not. Not the “Slit Here” tattoo, but the actual urge or action to do so. He knew what all of those poor kids felt like. They had their whole lives ahead of them, but toss in that stupid f*****g word that just wouldn’t die already and they’re hanging themselves or bleeding themselves out purposely in their dorm rooms.

Why? Why did he have to say it? Deny it? Pass it off as a blunt reaction? Why couldn’t he fess up to what was deep inside of him? All of those men he threatened to bury without a second thought if they told. All of those nervous nods and the tears peaking from their beautiful eyes that always attracted him in the first place.

He almost did it one time. After crying all night, getting an indefinite hour of sleep and waking up to a tear stained face that was full of lies, deceit, empty morals and self hatred. F**k the fans. F**k the media. F**k the outrage. F**k the nameless men. F**k everything. It was nostalgic really. Finding himself at the bottom of a bottle of Hennessy and Ambien wasn’t. But that’s what happens when you just can’t take it anymore.

Regrets are mistakes that you don’t learn from. He had a lot of those things. Those spiders. He swore the more he thought about it the more braincells died. In actuality, the more he thought about it, the more pills he took, then the more braincells vanished like the next man leaving his hotel bed.

“I won’t tell anyone, only if…”

“If WHAT?!”

“If we do this again some time.”

His hands shook as he wrote his number down on a leaflet. The pad of paper sitting on the hotel room desk was covered in new lyrics. But his eyes always diverted to that stupid horrible word. F**k words, he thought.

He didn’t call for a month. He was done supposedly regretting it and picked up the phone himself. 0. And they said one was the loneliest number. Try being a nothing in a room full of nothing.

He mumbled the name into the cold plastic.

“One moment please.”

He wondered briefly if that b***h on the other line new what a moment felt like to him.

“Hello?”

“I would like to do this again some time.” His voice quivered and broke at the last word, his hands trembling with fear and nervousness. He tended to speak properly and in correct dialect when he was nervous.

“I thought you would never ask.”

Blonde hair gradually turned to brown. Baby fat gradually turned to taut skin. Addiction gradually turned to a healthy lifestyle. That word suddenly turned into…the same exact thing that it was.

“You’re so good…” His lover sighed. By that point Marshall’s skin was warm and toasty, full of love and excited endorphins. When his lover put his now cold cheek on Marshall’s chest, he sighed in delight at the new sensation, as opposed to the old one which sent tingles up and down Marshall’s flushed and naked body.

“I love you.” And he meant it. This man brought a type of security that nothing could bring him. When he was near him, he was full of happiness. When he was gone, he missed him. When he returned, he let this wonderful man know just how much he truly missed him. It was bizarre to think just how long they had kept it all such a painful secret, but he was ready.

“Love you too pumpkin.” Then he giggled, and Marshall felt his heart skip a beat.

“I’m gonna tell ‘em,” he said. And the wind was knocked out of him. The spiders left. The pain was gone. The genuine happiness and awkward smiles returned.

“I thought you were homophobic?”

They both laughed.

“Well then call me a f****t.”

That would be the last time he would ever say the word.

Have you ever felt the moment sneak up on you? That particular moment in your seemingly worthless life when you realize you would die for someone? That particular moment when your heart goes into a dangerously fast paced rhythm, your nerve endings ignite into a frenzy and you can’t lift your hand without your fingers shaking? That particular moment when you would give up your entire existence in favor of someone else’s? That particular moment when you’re scared to death because you just realized you’re dangerously head over heels in love? The moment when you flip the word around and see that it spells “evol”, but you shrug your shoulders. You shrug off the doubt. You shrug off the questions. You shrug off the denial. You grin a stupid grin that only your mother could love. Then you find someone else who does too.

This was one of those particular moments. Every time he exhaled he relieved himself of bottled up fear and inhaled a fragrance of hope and confidence. Apparently it was too much for his respiratory senses to handle, for his body replaced the confidence with another dose of cold hard reality, and so the cycle of fear and hope continued.

He stopped counting the amount of times he cracked his arthritic knuckles. It actually got to the point where it hurt, and sent his body back down from cloud nine. Reality was a heartless b***h that just wouldn’t leave him alone. Sometimes he tried to crack them when they just couldn’t crack anymore, and it made it hurt even worse.

He remembered someone telling him once that if you don’t admit that you’re nervous, you’ll cloud up and draw a huge blank, wanting to crawl up in a defenseless corner to alleviate the ice cap forming over your brain in a highlighted nervousness and you’ll end up looking like a fool at the circus who was afraid of clowns. If you admit you’re nervous, the nerves disappear on their own. Whoever said that was a God be damned liar.

Like homosexuality, nervousness was a sign of weakness. Fear and resentment. Doubt and suspicions. Threat and cowardliness. He wondered why the hell people gave a damn anymore. You could never be who you are in this game. Never express your true demons. No. You made them all up and lied about some of them and you sold a million. He was never like that. Well, he was about one thing.

But this was it. He wasn’t afraid of saying it out loud, but the aloud and outraged reaction sure crept up on him. By the time the journalist sat down with him, his perspiration accumulated under his arms and on his impassive face along with the feeling of puking all over someone or something. He prayed for the millionth time in a row that no one noticed. Well, HE noticed, but HE certainly wasn’t a no one.

“You’ll do fine.”

“Don’t leave me here.”

“Don’t worry.” Comfort. “If you can’t handle it…” Understanding. “I won’t be mad if…” Compassion. “…you can’t do it.” Ultimatum. “I still love you more than words can measure.” Love. Don’t f**k this up, he told himself.

And just like that his lover was no longer cooing in his ear words of wisdom and reassurance. He couldn’t even pull his head to him and plant a passionate kiss on those beautiful lips to let him know he wouldn’t let him down for the world. But he couldn’t. Today, he needed to change that. This was that particular moment.

He asked him about his music, his fame, his departure, his possible retirement, his age, even his daughters which he ironically but politely asked not to speak about, and then…

“Are you homophobic?”

He thought he was going to puke right there. Vomit his insecurities, his problems, his difficulties, his demons, even those putrid spiders. In hindsight, that might have been a good thing. Relieve the tension through involuntary bodily functions, but it would be quite awkward and not professional. So he decided to release a different vomit: words.

“That’s actually a funny question.” Jokes. That’ll work. Its always worked before.

“Funny?” He saw his heart and soul drop his head.

“Yeah, considering the fact that I’m…” And his heart and soul lifted their head, staring into his eyes, brown on blue, little silent spiritual tears breaking the floodgates of a tight knit boundary that held their love back for years upon years.

“You’re what?”

“Considering the fact that I’m gay. Gay and irrevocably in love with another man that has opened up my heart and walked inside without bringing regrets or dishonesty with him.”

Maybe that guy who told him if you admit your nerves you’ll feel better actually knew what he was talking about.

“Really?” He looked at the man’s face of pure shock and confusion and thought that he had never seen anything quite as funny.

“Yup. What I’ve realized…love has no gender. Love doesn’t have eyes, or ears, or a mouth, or a nose. No. All it has is a lot of feeling. Emotional, physical, mental. If you lie to yourself, you’re lying to love. Its hard to admit to yourself that you’re not who you thought you were, but if you meet the right person who deals with the exact same problem, then you don’t need to worry. If its a sin, then who cares? To be honest, we don’t even know if God exists in the first place. I’ve already proved myself worthy of being a rapper and a father and just a man in general, so if I’m gay, you don’t need to care. What two people do in the bedroom is their business. So call me a hypocrite, call me unworthy, lose your respect for me, call me a sell out, call me a f****t. I don’t care. No one should. I’m proud of who I am and I’ve never been in a happier position in my life than I am in now.”

Tears were staining his shirt by that point. Little rivers of truth and opinion. His lover’s face was like a mirror image. He stood up and wrapped his now non-shaking hands around his lover’s body as they cried into each others’ shirts. Once their lips sealed together, it would take a plyer to separate them.

Have you ever felt the moment sneak up on you? That particular moment in your absolutely amazing life when you realize you would die for someone? That particular moment when your heart goes into a beautifully fast paced rhythm, your nerve endings ignite into a frenzy and you can’t breathe without feeling butterflies in your chest? That particular moment when you would give up your entire existence in favor of someone else’s? That particular moment when you’re too happy for words because you just realized you’re luckily head over heels in love?

Marshall never really believed in fairytales, but he thought this story deserved a Happily Ever After.