the commune Focus: Gay Republicans

he election debates have grown extremely heated, even in mid-April, and with Ralph Nader tossing his durag in the ring, the outcome in November is ever up for question. Analysts are even trying to predict the effect frustrated gay Republicans will have if they pull out of the president and get behind John Kerry. Which leads many to speculate: What the fuck? There are gay Republicans?

Apparently so. They even have a national organization, the Log Cabin Republicans, which possibly a reference to a place Lincoln used to "entertain" visiting dignitaries. the Log Cabin Republicans, or "Loggers," as I've just said, aren't completely sold on voting for Bush this November, following the president's hard-on stance for a "Defense of Marriage" act to amend the constitution. Neither party has come out publicly in support of gay marriage, but the Democrats have taken the bold step of saying they wouldn't fuck with the constitution. According to polls mysteriously conducted, average Americans are against homosexual marriage but also against a constitutional amendment outlawing it.

As a heterosexual woman trapped in the body of a man, I've always found homosexuals something of a mystery. But at least they seem pretty straightforward, no pun intended, in their political support of candidates who pledge their support. Why would homosexuals want to support Republicans, with their history of voting against issues that support them? It's almost as crazy as the notion of a black Republican.

Paula Squatt, a spokesperson for the Loggers and big-time lesbian, espoused the organization's point of view.

"Just because you're gay doesn't mean it's the only thing that affects the way you vote," said Squatt, feathering her hair in a mirror. "We are multi-layered individuals, and issue-conscious voters. We believe in an unrestricted market and stressing the power of the individual to make his own fortune in our society. We think social programs do not encourage people to make better lives for themselves. And overwhelmingly, we believe in a stronger defense for this country, and putting more money into the military. Just because you're gay it doesn't mean you can't vote for Bush in November. I'm not voting for him because I'm a woman, and his gender politics really piss me off."

Still not convinced, I interviewed some gay Republican friends I know from a local dancing establishment. Why did you vote for Bush in 2000?

Del Beauchamp: "He had it goin' on."

Smonika: "He had more 'strut' than Gore."

Roberto Love-Package: "I've always had a thing for Texans."

Vera Wadlow: "The ballot was confusing."

Obie Dufresne: "I liked how he wanted to get tough with crime. I'm a criminal, Mr. President. Get tough with me."

Pete: "I'm a masochist."

Admittedly, they might not be the most representative of gay political groups, but they know how to party. The ultimate answer for why homosexuals would support Bush, even in the much smaller numbers than they support Democratic candidates, should lie in the numbers. Republicans and Democrats both have a history of voting for and supporting legislation that by a large margin favors those with incomes over $150,000 a year. Since a great majority of Americans live far under that annual income level, the question becomes: Why would anyone vote for either party?

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Seems like we spent our entire childhoods preparing for things that never happened. How many hours did we waste watching filmstrips on not accepting rides from strangers, or classics like "Don't Play with Rover Foamymouth" that taught us the virtues of staying the hell away from dogs with rabies? How many sleepless nights spent worrying about total global annihilation from a nuclear war with the Russians? By that I mean other kids staying up all night worrying about nuclear death, God knows Omar Bricks didn't lose any shuteye over foreign policy issues. I was way too wrapped up in my plans to order a money printing press from an ad I saw in the back of a Casper comic book. I schemed for a year to get that damn money-mill, and then it finally came in the mail and it turns out the friggin' thing prints toy money! I shit you not, ten-dollar bills with a picture of a walrus on them. I could have shit, I was so mad. I might have. Gone were my dreams of printing up enough currency to buy every toy in the store and to build a functioning car out of Legos, with which to drive to Sea World. I'd have to wait until Christmas (and 1995, alternately) like all of the other kids, like a shmoe.

I guess every little kid had to have some major disillusionment when they were young, like having their parents die or ordering Sea Monkeys. I'm sure you know the drill: ad in the back of your comic book looks awesome and makes you think you're getting a clan of human-sized merpeople in the mail, and that in no time you'll be frolicking in their underwater kingdom and cutting deals to have the Sea Monkeys blow up your school and stuff your Social Studies teacher into a steamer trunk headed for the Dutch East Indies. Then of course the package comes in the mail and it's an ant farm and a packet of dust. Since you're a kid and therefore gullible as a mail-order bride, you follow the instructions, add water, and hold your breath to see if this chintzy crap will somehow transform into the awesome experience you've been envisioning. Instead, it ends up looking like that Watersquirtz ring-toss game you've had since you were five, the one that got all leaky and mildewy after it spent a few years at the bottom of your toybox. It dawns on you then that the only way you could use these "Sea Monkeys" to get back at your Social Studies teacher would be if you put them in her coffee. So you get mad, and stay that way for the better part of seven minutes until you realize that you're missing the beginning of Diff'rent Strokes, and it's the one where Willis tries to grow a goatee.

That's what I hear anyway, I never ordered the Sea Monkeys myself. My dad had ordered them when he was a kid and his bitter diatribes convinced me that they probably weren't worth the eight bucks. For that same reason we never got to go to Sea World, since there was no way dad was going to shell out his hard-earned money to see a bunch of water fleas swim around in a tank.

Thank Moses I had my dad to impart these pearls of wisdom on my young mind, since school definitely wasn't doing it. They were far too concerned that we were going to get kidnapped from the school parking lot or bitten by a stray dog if we somehow managed not to get nuked while doing drugs. Of course none of it ever happened, and we all survived (except for Tommy Frink, who peed in the sink and later ended up becoming a Scientologist). What the suits didn't understand was that there were far too many Transformers to collect for any of us to blow our allowances on crack pipes. Of course I may be a bad one to ask since I flunked out of the DARE program at the tender age of eight. I passed out when the officers were showing us how to tie off and locate a vein, so during the graduation ceremony I had to sit off to the side with the kid who'd had Mono the whole time.

Seems like they could have been showing us filmstrips on something useful, like not answering cell phones in movie theaters or what to do if the guy next to you on the plane is wearing a diaper made of plastic explosives. I'm pretty sure I know the proper position to be in when you're obliterated by a mushroom cloud, but search me for how you're supposed to disarm a pimply reject in a Korn shirt with an Uzi. Or even etiquette things like the polite ways to turn down a request to join a cult. That would come in handy. And karate. They definitely should have taught us karate.

But, you know, life goes on and some things you just have to learn for yourself. For everything else, I've been thinking about correspondence colleges.

Yeah. I should definitely open one!

Bricks out.

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Some guys are greedy, the way I see it. They want every single dollar they can get their hands on. They want the things they can't have, the things they don't even deserve. They could be blessed with good looks, good fortune, and all they want is more, more, more. Me? I'm not like that at all. I want one thing out of life before I die, and it's not all that much—I want to experience the perfect gangbang.

Of course, I've had my share of gangbang experiences. But were they perfect? Hardly. Not unless you call a blaring TV in the background, a bunch of strange jerks giggling, and that just-vomited breath smell overpowering what should have been a beautiful couple of hours. Still, I'm not giving up hope. I know the perfect gangbang exists out there, and I just want to be part of it before my days are over.

Does this sound familiar? You get a phone call from an old friend, or some guy you drank too much with in some bar some night, and get invited to what promises to be a real sharp gangbang with a beautiful honey. You get there, the room is packed full of dudes who have no business at a gangbang, either too skuzzy or they clearly don't know what they're doing. Smoke and liquor permeate the room like you never left the bar. The "beautiful honey" you were promised is some freshly passed-out stripper way past her prime and smells like she pissed herself before going unconscious to the mercy of the crowd. Am I too proud to walk away? Maybe not, but it doesn't mean I'm a happy participant. Sloppy seconds I can deal with, but fifths? Sixths? Thirteenths? Ugh. Sometimes you just want to pack up your ol' kit bag and leave that gangbang before it gets disgusting.

Even those rare gangbangs when the gal is still awake can be disappointing. You hoped for a small and intimate affair, but she was shitty drunk and called up some ex-boyfriends, and all of a sudden they're crashing you and your small gang of five to muscle in on your action. And just because she's drunk tonight doesn't mean she won't press charges tomorrow. I let loose an audible sigh. Then I join in, of course, but I still keep my fingers crossed for that one remarkable gangbang I've always been looking for.

Picture this: Just you and the anonymous woman, and four friends who just came with you from the last party. And she's a doll, too, like a slutty Katie Couric, but not too slutty. Dressed in some alluring and only slightly skanky lingerie, bathed like the room in the red lights of nearby lamps. Rose petals cover the bed and its satin sheets, the scent of lilacs and maybe a little MGD fill the room. Instead of the inane chatter of that one asshole who says this is so fucking hot, the only sound in the air is the gentle breathing of five people, and maybe a Lionel Richie record. "Easy like Sunday morning" croons the singer, and everybody gets naked. Let the banging commence!

Now that's pretty fucking romantic, you got to admit. It's not at all like a nasty rendezvous with your dorm roommates in a Taco Bell bathroom. And it's not all that impossible either. Hell, I already have the guys in mind. I just need to find the willing girl and arrange the date. You see? I don't want all that much. I don't see why things have to be so difficult.

I wouldn't mind looking online, trying one of those "adult friend finders" or something… but you gotta be careful with those. A lot of nuts answer those kind of ads.

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