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Dealing with fag hags

By Tony Phillips

November 21, 2006

San Diego--I love writing for Vyuz mostly because my editor lets me write what I want. That’s rather uncommon, actually, and it’s awfully liberating. For instance, my editor will have no problem at all with me writing a story about a straight man’s experiences in the gay bars that clutter my neighborhood. I think it’s a good story, but it’s a story that most other editors would never let me write, those gutless sumbitches.

Well, a lot, actually. So sit tight, take a deep breath and remember – they’re just words. They can’t hurt you. So let’s see where this little saunter leads us.

Here’s the deal – I don’t think there is anything wrong with stereotyping. I believe that by pretending like we’re all the same we miss out on life’s richness. Richness is variety, and I, for one, am for variety. Most black people are bad swimmers. Most Brits are bad tippers. Most Indians (the feathered kind) are bad drinkers. Most Indians (the dot kind) smell funny. Most Jews make a lot more money than I do. Most Asians are questionable drivers. Most fags can sew, and most of them don’t watch boxing. Cripples are bad dancers and midgets are bad tennis players. And there you have it.

I don’t know why it is that people are so afraid to say things like that even though everybody thinks them. All of you know that stereotypes, though verboten in our postmodern world of rectitude, are types. They resonate because they’re accurate. I’m not saying that all women cry to get their way, but a whole big fucking shit-load of them do.

And there’s the next thing. Cussing is fun, no matter what we heard from the bitch in human resources. Cussing is fun mostly because one isn’t “supposed” to do it. Whatever. I guaran-goddamn-tee you that the quickest way to get me to do something all the time is to tell me that I’m not supposed to do it. So I’m going to use the rest of this whole piece to cuss and make sweeping generalizations about a unique group of people that frequent my neighborhood.

Fag hags are fucking confused. I’m not talking about the big fat ones who hang around with queers because they can’t get a boyfriend. I mean the hot ones with the wet panties who hang around grinding their pussies on some fag’s leg and getting him all worked up just so they can satisfy themselves with the obvious fact that they can get a guy who likes other guys to fuck them. If you’ve spent much time in gay bars, you know the women I’m talking about. You’ve seen them. You’ve watched them snail-tracking a queer and rubbing his face in their tits, all the while pouring vodka and cranberry down him like Grant took Richmond.

You know what’s going on in their addled fucking skulls too. You know they’re thinking to themselves, “God I’m so fucking hot. Even he can’t resist me.” They’re also getting off the whole time on the fact that a bar full of grown men is watching them and they can get away with acting like complete jizz junkies right out in front of God and everybody with no fear of getting jumped. And after they’re through pumping that big gay cock up into a hot, pulsing python, they’re not gonna give him a piece anyway. The smug cunts.

Now you actually get four types of chicks in a gay bar. First are the aforementioned big fat fuckers who hang around with gay men because gay men flatter them by telling them what nice boobs they have, because gay men don’t make them feel unfuckable, and because they’re decent human beings who just enjoy the company of kind men. I like these women, and I welcome them.

Second are the straight women who go as part of an office party, or perhaps with their boyfriends. Maybe their boyfriends are bisexual, or maybe they’re straight guys who just like the company of gay men and enjoy everything about the community to which they belong. I like these women too, and I welcome them.

Third are lesbians and bisexual women. Actually, these are two different subspecies, but for this piece they can be treated as one. They’re fine, although they do tend to hog the pool table. Usually they come in pairs and the lesbian pretends to tolerate her bisexual girlfriend flirting openly with men, although when the night’s over she’s coming home to eat clam and that’s that. I’m fine with these women, too, although I don’t know if I welcome them.

The ones I’m fed up with are the fourth type. In case you don’t remember what you read a half-page back, they’re the ones who come in half naked, smellin’ like a whore on a troop train, who dance to every song on the juke box some guy’s five-spot can buy them; who get drinks bought for them by grinding their beef curtains on some guy’s crotch; who rub their torsos on some guy’s chest and stroke their stiff nipples across his back; who wear their low-riders one inch above their dewy cooze; and who get some guy’s balls twitchin’ like a puppy tryin’ to pass an egg shell. They would be fun to fuck, but I don’t like them, the disingenuous bitches, and I sure as hell don’t welcome them.

They have a disorder and I think we should help cure them. There are two schools of thought on this issue. One camp suggests treating them like Jodie Foster on a pinball machine. I like that idea, but I opt for the theory that says we should make them feel bad about themselves. Here are a few fun things to say if you encounter a rancid whore in a gay bar:

1. "Wow! You're the second hottest drag queen in this bar!"

2. “I’m sorry. I just ate and your ass is making my stomach grumble.”

3. “Are you dancing, or do you have Parkinson’s disease?”

4. “What a nice jacket. What is it, yak?”

5. “So what brings you here? Couldn’t find any self-respecting straight man who doesn’t think you’re a stanky-ass, cum-swilling whore?”

Try these out the next time you get a chance, or make up a slam of your own. It’s fun.

So there you have it – cussing, stereotyping, gender bashing, line crossing – all the little things that make life worth writing about. I ain’t felt this cleansed since I swallowed the soap. And no matter how much you might officially disapprove of such dirty talk, I want you all to admit that down deep inside, you found this article funnier than you wish to admit. That’s fine with me. Don’t admit it if it makes you feel better. But feel free to go back to the beginning and read it again. It’ll be our little secret.

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