I loved him.  I loved him like a brother.  And I find it bothersome that this is turned into mud, perverted into something dirty.  In this day and age, after the AIDS scare, it’s almost become a pat answer—the cultural elite having it all figured out—catchphrases gone viral on sex and psychology, gender roles and identity.  So I guess I’ll just defuse the situation.  I’ll admit what the sophisticates accuse me of, what Johnny’s vengeful wife accused us of—I loved another man.  How this is turned into sex not a mystery…  I’m not a Bible reader.  I don’t go to church.  I’m not out to save anyone’s soul, but I do like it—I like what is said in Paul’s letter to the Romans, chapter one.  And I’ll believe all the gossip, the scholarly research and conjecture.  Maybe Shakespeare was gay—his sonnets to a man.  Plato and Socrates—the Greek epistemology forming the basis of western knowledge—the Hellenic world that gives us our law and thoughts on the good life—gay.  Pedophiles of philosophy and the Catholic church—teaching young boys the nature of being.  All our sailors—gay…  But so then what?  What else is there to write?  If it’s true we have nothing to worry about—do we?  It’s all figured out.  Red flags indicators to our reasoning.  Men being effeminate.  Women being masculine.  Gender identity no longer with clear lines drawn.  No boundaries.  Just the stupid people breeding…  I loved a man.  I loved him like a brother.  But instead of this being natural and good, it’s made unnatural and only condoned as natural if admitted it has a sexual nature.  And what is this sexual nature?  Do we eat through our nose?  Breathe through our ears?  The truth is loving someone of your own sex is healthy, but we corrupt it with sex, which really has nothing to do with it.  Sex is not an act of love anyway.  Rarely have I been thinking about love when I’m having sex with a woman, even if it’s a woman I love—this idea of love a need, a psychological need to have a woman’s attention, the giving of her love, but the act, the sexual act itself, is about control and dominance.  Sex is physical, and only if you’re lucky does it become metaphysical.  No, good sex, the most satisfying sex, is usually angry and violent.  It is animalistic—instinctual.  There’s nothing civilized about it.  Only a woman benefits from civilization.  In an uncivilized world women would be raped and made into slaves.  Their only power the power to tempt.  To tempt with flesh, pheromone dust, to whisper in the ear of the alpha male their ideas of civilization so that they may benefit.  And it goes against nature.  The truth that we fight our nature all the time, in repressions and sublimations.  Our whole history as a human race our fight with nature.  And that’s why it’s okay now.  It’s okay to be gay.  Because you’re free then.  You’re free to be uninhibited…  So I’ll defuse the situation.  I’m gay.  I’m as gay as they come.  I’m bi-sexual.  I love men just as much as I love women.  Now what?  Am I sexually attracted to other men as a matter of course because I’ve admitted this?  Were Johnny Tribout and I sexually attracted to one another?  Only threatened libidos turn to this.  Because all of us have a sex drive.  Woman want sex just as much as men do.  And once you’re wise to this you’re wise to all their tricks.  Only when a natural sex drive is thwarted, inhibited, does it find an outlet perverse and unnatural.  So would I fuck another guy in the ass?  Maybe.  If that was all that was left to me, if over time this was all I was tempted with.  But what if fucked a woman in the ass?  Does that make me gay?  That’s why it’s ridiculous.  It’s ridiculous to confuse the act of sex with being homosexual in nature…  We were brothers.  Johnny and I.  We fought together in the war.  And even after we parted ways, after what happened in New Orleans, when Bethany’s first husband was killed, after Johnny was almost killed because of me, because of what I did to win Bethany, after our first and last record deal playing together as musicians, after all this—we still kept in communication with each other.  Over the years there were phone calls, letters.  He even sent me a card every Christmas…  That’s why I’m angry.  I’m angry writing this.  I’m angry at him for taking his own life because of a vindictive woman and her lies… And of course I know the pat answer to this.  It’s obvious that I must hate women.  I’m homosexual because I hate women.  I’m afraid of them.  I don’t understand them.  I want to be a woman.  Say whatever you want.  I know you can’t beat a woman when it comes to love or revenge—these being civilized emotions.  The irony being sensitive to this, being a sensitive artist that tries to understand this—this depth of love and revenge—all the red flags go off as indicators that you’re gay.  And so you can’t win.  You can’t win against depravity.  To even try would be like ripping out your very nature.  The truth that we are all depraved.  So what else can I say?  Everyone is gay.  And if you don’t like what I’ve said, you have my apologies.  All I know is I miss him.  I miss a man that I loved and who loved me.  I miss a man I played music with.  And this song is for you, my brother…

            –David Threnody, on homosexuality in America—from his journals 1975 to 1981

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