Scott Capurro

Hey kids, I’m preparing Thanksgiving dinner, but I’m taking this break to let you know how thankful I am that you read this shit. Especially since, apparently, i’m ‘harsh’, to quote some club booker in London who no longer books me. I thought only the Comedy Cafe avoided my calls, but now I know this other club, in Leicester Square, finds me terrifying. Really? In London, in 2008, a little gay like me is scary? That’s hot. Now if I could somehow get my worrying message out there, maybe text murder threats to children with Leukemia just to prove Americans understand irony, which might wipe Baby P off the front page and, soon, I’ll sell out Wembley, without having to be mainstream and closeted.
My plan is working perfectly….

Gay Times
December 2008

Sometimes my Brazilian is like a child. I practically cut his meat. However the language barrier seems to be working in my favor. Usually, the more a boyfriend gets to know about my demanding and overwrought character, the less he likes. The Brazilian doesn’t listen less; he has, with his linguistic challenges, selective comprehension. But so do I.

I sift through his moaning about stalkers and finance problems, hoping for words of support. Truthfully he’s extremely self-centered, which I ignore, while pretending that quick, rough, slightly violent penetrative sex, with, eventually, a condom, whilst he pinches my side and pulls at my hair and I try to wriggle out of my robe, as he’s giggling then pounding harder, so hard he can’t stop coming, is enough. He fucks me like were cellmates, until he’s threatened by my sexually explicit writing in this magazine and angrily goes to bed early.

I pay for everything - every meal out and all the food that goes through the flat. I don’t mind, he’s a fledgling gay, although I was never that broke; and I was always willing to hold the hand or rest my arm on the shoulder of my date. While out in public, he defends a gay buffer between the two of us as his eyes dart quickly, like he’s prey. His cousins are everywhere. I wonder aloud where they think he’s been sleeping.

“At friends.”

“Every night?”

“In Brazil, it’s normal.”

“In London, it’s homeless.”

He blames his family’s homophobia for his coy behavior. I tell him he’s the culprit.

“You’re afraid to commit. You dumped your fiancé to come here. Now you’re gay and terrified.”

He looks hurt. I know I sound terse, but I’m avoiding adjectives because they confuse him. Why are men so fucking useless when confronted? I watch him tear up and wonder how wars ever get fought effectively?

I’m afraid too. The fact is I’ve chosen an urchin, a nephew really, as a romantic partner. Someone new to London, who’s insular and who’s still never touched my dick. Not even a prick on my dick. Nothin’. Nada. Zip. Oh, I’m all over his, but he’s never even seen mine, which has nothing to do with my size, or lack thereof, or it’s appearance, although I’ve been assured by many strangers mine is a pretty penis. Do you sense my anxiety? Let me illuminate. I’m cutting my dick right now, hoping Brazil will smell the blood, wake up from his nap and like any wild Boar rush at me for a gulp. But that won’t happen because he sleeps like death, so I’m erect constantly. Get the point? Do you?! I’M FUCKING FRUSTRATED!

I may not be scholarly, but I’m old enough to realize I’m avoiding something by steering clear of intimacy, as I drop my anchor on Fantasy Island. I mean, who doesn’t want to get skewered by a thick, hairy, juvenile foreigner? We all have rape fantasies. Why should I, or my priest, or my elected officials, or my cellmate be any different? Perhaps my need to be pursued is overtaking me.

So it’s no wonder that whilst in Budapest, at a 16th Century Turkish bath, I let myself be fingered by a man who looked like he might have been the structure’s original architect. We’re in a large, round, warm pool, with a curved, dotted ceiling above. There is almost total silence, which is necessary for gloom and male cruising. Two bearded seniors are cradling each other, and I’m supposed to pretend this ancient place is, as my tourist brochure alerts me, hetero. Although, I suppose, in a Renaissance way, furtive hand jobs are quite mainstream, if Shakespeare’s closet is anything to go by.

My Buda babe is tough, and he grimaces whenever he pushes his index up my poop shoot. He’s got big, hard tits and a large, solid, white ass that he exposes, rolling onto his stomach and resting on the shallow stairs, like a scheduled exam will soon commence. And commence it does. No one seems to mind. I take his temperature, he takes mine, while an even bigger dude flicks my nipples. It’s the kind of synchronized swimming techniques that might’ve spiced up boring Beijing.

Later, back in his cabin, I’m pressed against my architect and his D & G sportswear. These Hungarian queens dress like George Michael is president. Through the door’s crack, I see an adorable youngarian following an octogenarian. I lick my finger, as the young feed on the old.

As did the presidential election. I agree with those who chose Obama - let’s give the black guy a chance to fuck it up for a change. But then came his uninspiring acceptance speech, the most seamless, unconvincing diatribe about freedom ever delivered from behind several 10″ by 15″ sections of plexiglass. My expectations were lowered further by the outcome of prop. 8 in California. I’ve no intention to wed, but I like the idea that lesbians had one less thing to bitch about. Ironically, the same churches that helped get out the black vote in support of the democratic candidate also robbed gays and lezzies of their democratic right to marry. Now, it seems, chickens have more rights than gays in California.
Marriage, as a formidable institution, is doomed, I know. it’s odd the gays spend so much time and money on a dying subject. Kind of sweet though, that sort of romantic hopefulness, but when will all those queers realize, we can’t assimilate into a christian culture. We need to find out own way, and leave churches, and all their sad, insular traditions, behind us.
God I sound so grand.

GT
November 2008

I’m in San Francisco for a brisk September break and I’ve barely got time to cruise boys on line when a jury summons arrives in the post. Although I appreciate the chance to sit in judgment of my peers, the fact is I have so few. Truthfully, who else works harder than me? And I’m probably not the best jury candidate because I’m psychic, so I’m sure early on how things are going to turn out. I assume most cunts are guilty. I know I am. I trash the document.
But my mother convinces me to respond.
“Goddammit honey, they can put you in prison.”
“Mom I’m queer. Prison is a tease.”
“They’ll fine you $1,000.”
I bolt for court.
About two hundred annoyed Californians stumble into the courtroom listed on our notice. Jury selection happens early. Well, early for me. Noon. I’d taken a Viagra the night before, then drank some beer and smoked pot. It’s SF! I had a hippie to rape. And now, without caffeine, I could feel my pulse in my head.
The roll call begins. Because it’s San Francisco, when the surname ‘Lee’ is announced, four Chinese men simultaneously answer ‘here’. The guy next to me is vaguely hot, Italian, pale with dark hair and - oops! - a ponytail. Who tells straight men ponytails look good? Their jealous girlfriends I suppose. But his arms are sinewy, and not from working out. He’s just tense. He’s wearing all black and he carries a slim script, upon which he scribbles notes, in pencil. He appears to be morphing from mafia kingpin to alternative theatre director. When his name is called, he answers ‘present’. That’s when I realize he’s, sadly, just an IT nerd.
Some people are already asleep when the judge arrives for a pep talk. He’s wearing pleated trousers and - seat yourself - a cable knit cardigan. Either I leave, or this judge goes through an extreme make over. I want to help. I believe in fairness, to a point. But when I see his hairy grey neck I momentarily consider switching to women. The judge whips out a large paper calendar and, with a red felt pen, begins crossing the days we’ll be needed. He marks three weeks, then reminds us if it’s our first jury service, employers won’t cover our financial loss. All those still awake shutter. Some imagine their homes repossessed. Most Americans are one paycheck away from lap dancing. Justice is sweet, but expensive, and clearly not swift enough.
He begs us for our service. He looks us each in the eyes, imploring our good will. He’s flirting Intellectually, telling us we’ll be used wisely to punish a potential drug dealer. I tremble. What if it’s my drug dealer? I’ve got a flight approaching. I need my anti-anxiety meds. If that bitch Tony has been arrested again, I’ll arrive in London in a pool of my own stress and bile. I hug myself, and wonder why I smell of garlic. My appetite surfaces. I don’t care about justice. I want pancakes. Across from me, a divorcee type, 50 ish with pointed breasts, has her legs spread, like Sharon Stone. Obviously, someone else has cravings.
One way out of service, the judge alerts us, would be if we had less than a decent command of English. I’ve experienced the California educational system, first hand. I expect most of the room to leave. Instead, eight Mexicans breath sighs of relief and return to day care centers.
Those who speak English but have excuses are asked to line up before the judge. Especially those who are illegally parked, like me. Actually I don’t own a car, but when asked if any of us are at meters, I raise my hand. Some don’t. Some who aren’t nauseous I suppose. Some who believe more in the call of liberty than in salty bacon. I’m very very weak.
I tell the judge I’m a Communist. No go. Then I tell him I have a relative who’s a cop. Try again. I travel a lot for work, and announce that I’m leaving for the UK very soon. He asks when I’ll return.
“In the New Year, God willing.”
I throw God in for good measure. The judge signs me out. Before I leave the courthouse, I wander the hallways, searching for a shy, thin legal clerk. The type that always appears in 70s porn. Instead I find very polished marble floors that reveal my silhouette. My slim profile. My shadow. My selfishness. I feel diminished.