Dear Readers: We’re rerunning some very early columns while I recover from shoulder surgery. This column is from February of 1999 — back in my “Hey, Faggot” days, and back before the online archives start. Enjoy!
HEY, FAGGOT: I feel dirty. Not dirt that can be wiped away with a Wet Nap, but two-cans-of-Ajax kind of dirty. Alas, no matter how hard I scrub, I can’t get the memory of this man off of me. The urge to grab an SOS pad and scrub my nether regions is almost irresistible. Long story short: I spent the last year ass-over-teakettle for an older man who never made me feel very good about myself. At the time I thought I loved him, but now the mention of his name makes me wish I were one of those aliens on “V” who can shimmy out of their fake human skin.
This is a man who...