Stephen Gulliver's Journal, "Straight World"

Dirty Bomb

2006-02-11T11:41:00.000-05:00

The walk to the car is a blur. I tripped several times, but I don’t remember getting in the car. Dick tells me that I fell asleep immediately upon collapsing in the suicide seat. When I woke hours later, we were parked on a dirt road next to a farmhouse ruin. My handcuffs were off, and I lay on my side in the front seat. I struggled to sit upright, my head whirling from fatigue and hunger.

The sun was setting, and Dick was not in the car. I was too weak to do anything but look out of the window. The farmhouse wasn’t much more than a heap of gray weathered wood. One wall remained standing with two broken windows like empty eye sockets staring out at the unkempt fields. The lawn was overgrown with small trees, bushes and tall grass, with the skeleton of a dead shade tree spreading its arms above the cracked and overrun driveway. Behind the house a wall of trees extended one hundred-eighty degrees around the horizon with forest-covered hills climbing behind. Birds sang happily, and a cricket choir had begun its single chord chorus. I saw Dick exit the woods behind and to the right of the destroyed farmhouse. He waved as he approached the car and went behind to open the trunk. I could hear him rummaging around inside, and then he walked around to my side of the car, opened the door and handed me a small paper cup.

“Where are we?”

“Canada, of course.”

“Thank God! Tears began to well-up and I sobbed.”

“Stephen, enough, please stop. You need to drink this slowly. See if you can keep it down. If so, you can have something a bit more solid after awhile.”

“I’m starved,” I said, choking back the tears.

“Yes, but you’re stomach has shrunk. You are not use to eating. That’s non-fat skim milk. I don’t want to take a chance on fat upsetting your stomach, but the skim milk will get some protein into you.

I sipped the milk slowly, not swallowing immediately in order to allow the cool liquid to linger in my throat. Finally I asked the question that had been gnawing at me ever since Dick appeared in my room at the Helltel. “You were going to tell me why the Helltel was abandoned. What happened?”

“Dirty bomb.”

“What?”

“Yeah. A car exploded next to the Pentagon. Took out half the building and a cone shaped swath of radioactive dirt and dust fell on government buildings and downtown Washington D.C., eastward through the suburbs in Maryland, clear to the Chesapeake. Tens of thousands who weren’t killed immediately died from radiation poisoning. The President, most of Congress and the Senate were killed along with almost all of the high military command. The entire country is in complete and total chaos. You are lucky the maniac general at the Helltel didn’t have you killed before leaving.”

“Probably thought starvation would be nice and slow, much more horrible and painful than putting a bullet through my head.”

“H-m-m-m-m-m-m.”

“If the country is in such disorder, why are we still going to Canada?”

“Riots, looting, random killings, gangs of crazy kids wonder the streets. Lesbians and gays are constant targets. Even single straight men and women have been mistakenly tortured to death or shot outright by the gangs. And, the military is in complete disarray, though individual commanders have taken over some cities, counties, and towns. Others control highways and roads around their bases. None of these new military bosses have been able to connect there territory together. I imagine they will eventually be able to take the entire country back by force, though that may take years.

“Jesus.”

“He can’t help. Nothing and nobody can help. There’s nothing left for us there.”

My eyes filled, and tears began to flow once again. “But my parents, and Brenda, they may still be okay.”

“I doubt very much that Brenda is alive, Stephen.”

“No.”

“You’ve got to face it. She was put in a facility similar to the Helltel. I know from personal experience that very few people live to tell about their incarceration by the OAHS. I tried to get a few out, but you are my first success. As to your mom and dad, if they have survived this disaster, the worst thing you can do is to go to them.”

“Why? We could take them to Canada too.”

“It wouldn’t work, Stephen.”

“Why not?” He took my left arm gently in his hands and turned my hand over and held it before my eyes.

“You’ve been branded.” On the back of my hand was a red/pink equilateral triangle turned so that one of the three corners pointed toward my fingertips. “People will always know.”

“We can have it removed.”

“Yes, here in Canada, we can have it burned away.”

“Then I’ll go back and look for them.”

“Stephen, you can’t go home again.”

“Why not?”

“Because, the dream that was America, home of the brave and the free ended with George W. Bush’s War on Terror. It was the wrong war. The Second Bush caused the escalation of terrorism throughout the world when he invaded Iraq and killed more than twenty thousand Iraqi civilians including women and children. And, he made the additional mistake of creating a second class of citizenship at home by supporting the evangelical Christians in their desire to enact the 28th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. You know as well as I do that it does not allow you and I to have a sustained monogamous relationship sanctioned by the state or to establish our own families or raise our own children and/or to adopt children cast away by their heterosexual parents. Your home hasn’t existed since 2006 when that Amendment was voted into law.”

“My home does exist. The United States took a wrong turn, and all hell broke lose, but our country is not gone. The dream of freedom does not die. The dream survives and so does the United States. I will go back, Dick. Someday, with God’s help and your support, I will go back!”

Author’s Note

If we make it through this year without a 28th Amendment actually being written, then our reality and that of Stephen Gulliver are not the same. Instead they are two distinct threads that form a knot, but twist in different directions. I have my fingers crossed.

Isaac Stolzfuts

Rescue: Part II

2005-09-05T10:49:00.000-04:00

Dick said, “Have to see what we’re doing.” I heard him fumbling on the table next to my bed, and then through the blindfold, I could see the shaft of light pierce the darkness, and spread across the ceiling.

“I’m still thirsty.”

“Sorry. Here’s more water.” I choked, and he braced me with his arm. “Don’t drink so much. Take your time, Stephen.” I became dizzy and had to sit on the edge of the bed. Dick embraced me and said, “You’ve lost so much weight. All that hard work and training - I’ll have to put you back to it when we get to Canada.” Then he placed both hands on my right and left handcuffed arms and lifted. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.” I picked up my left foot, and immediately lost balance. The right knee began to buckle and I would have fallen had not Dick reached out once again to brace me.

“Let’s try this. I’ll hold your arm with my left hand. Does that give you enough support? Try walking again.”

“If I lean against you, I think I’m Okay.”

“Alright then. Just let me get the flashlight, and where on our way.”

I could see the flashlight beam in front of me, but of course, no detail through the blindfold. I shuffled forward with Dick holding on and heard him open the door.

"Wait," I said. "I need my Journals."

"Stephen, are they important?"

"Yes. They detail everything that happened to me in the Helltel. Besides, you're in them."

"That's reassuring. Where are they?"

"In the stand next to my bed."

"Here, lean against the door jamb. I'll get them." I heard his soft steps as he crossed the room, the drawer slid open, papers rustled, and then he was standing next to me again. "Got them. Let's go." He siezed my arm, and I leaned against his left side as we walked down the Helltel hall for the last time. I could feel the muscles of his arm and chest move as they adjusted to my shifting body weight. We reached the end of the hall, where the elevator was located and Dick said, “We’ll have to go left here and take the stairs. Nothing is working. They shut everything down before leaving.”

“But, why did they leave? You still haven’t explained.”

“Let’s get to the car. Once we’re on our way, and you’ve had a bite to eat, I will tell all.” I heard the door to the stairwell open even as I felt Dick’s weight shift. “Now, the stairs are about 5 feet ahead. I’ll stop right at the edge. There. Now, put your foot forward and down.”

I was exhausted, but hunger and weakness were out of mind at that moment because Dick had come to rescue me. It seemed as though time stood still, and it felt as though the goddess Kali had wrapped us in an encomium to love and I happily stumbled down those stairs for what seemed like an eternity.

Rescue

2005-08-21T07:35:00.000-04:00

I woke from a horrible dream in which I was bound and guards were pumping my stomach. I heard breathing in the chair next to the bed, and I thought, "they're back. I can eat. Or they will throw me in the black hole and kill me."

“You’re awake.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Dick?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you been? What happened? Where is everyone? I began to cry.”

“Not now. There’s no time. Once you’re out of here, I will explain. Do you think you can walk?”

“I walk to the sink for water.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to walk a lot farther than that.”

“I haven’t eaten. Starving. Weak.”

“I know. The bastards. You were just expendable. Here.” He wrapped cloth around my head. You will need this outside.”

“Is it daytime?”

“Yes.”

“We can leave in broad daylight?”

“Yes.”

“How can that be?”

“A lot has happened. Now, come on. Stand up.”

I slid to the edge of the bed, and he put his arm around my shoulders to steady me. I began to cry once again. He put a Kleenex to my eyes and wiped. “Stop that now. We have a long way to walk, but there is a car waiting. Once you are in the car, you can cry for as long as you want, and I will hold you. You deserve to cry. However, until then, you must keep your wits about you. I am dressed in full military garb. The car is an army car. If anyone sees us, they must think that the military is moving the last inmate of the OAHS out of the Helltel.”

“You called it the Helltel?”

Everyone does. Your word caught on, Stephen.

“I began to cry again because I hadn’t heard my real name since, well since Dick had disappeared.”

“Here.” He pulled my arms behind me and handcuffed them. “This has to look official. Now, let’s walk to the door. Just follow my directions. I’ll support you, but stop crying.” He was dabbing at my eyes. “You can’t seem relieved. Weak, and staggering is good. Crying is not.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Good. Your eyes are going to hurt despite the wrap. You’ve been in the dark for weeks.

“That long?”

“Yes.”

“Why couldn’t you come get me sooner.”

“I didn’t know you were still here. Let’s go.”

Starving In the Heltel

2005-08-01T10:44:00.000-04:00

When did the lights go out?

What day was that?

Was it morning, afternoon, or night?

Why does that matter?

I have water but haven’t eaten.

The only noises I hear are those of a deserted building.

There is no thin line of light under the door to my room.

I cannot tell how much time has passed in the dark.

There is only a continuous and monotonous present.

I stumble through the dark to my sink for water and sprain my ankle.

My pain and empty stomach are with me.

They consume me.

I worry that I will die here.

Darkness for an eternity

2005-06-29T09:12:00.000-04:00

In the hush, I fall asleep,

Dream of torture and death.

Guards surround me once again.

My own screams echo off cement walls.

Silence…

I lie on top of a heap of rotting corpses.

Sweet-sour smell of death filling my lungs

And I gasp, coughing.

Blood leaks from my mouth.

Silence…

I look up at the edge of a pit,

And dirt strikes my face.

I scream and I choke.

I wake to total black night thick as syrup.

The Helltel is

Empty and dead.

Silence…

Just a Dream

2005-05-23T06:14:00.000-04:00

I woke up to the reality of the Helltel.

However, it has been strangely silent. The lights work at random intervals as always, along with the haphazard noises and awful music. However, none of the bizarre food concoctions and / or combinations of weird stuff (like sour kraut and vanilla ice cream) have been delivered in what seems like days. There have been no footsteps in the hall outside my door. The place has an eerie silence about it, no creaks in the walls, none of the noises one hears in an occupied building. It is as though I am the only person here. I know that cannot be, but I feel as though it is so. I wonder if the OAHS (Office of Aberrant Human Services) has decided to allow me to die slowly of starvation. I feel more alone than at any time during my stay here.

I have done my counting-trance-thing several times. However, more recently as my stomach is empty and growling I find it more difficult to concentrate in order to arrive at the state that allows time to pass like a swiftly flowing stream instead of the tedious and boring non-productive emptiness that passes for living here in the Helltel. I suppose that as I become increasingly hungry it will be easier to go into trance because I will be more and more tired and susceptible to altered states.

My birthday dream was nice. I wish I could have more of those. I miss Brenda, and Mom, and Dad. I hope they are okay, and that the OAHS has not harmed them. It seems impossible that I have not seen them in over a year. Mom and Dad should be Okay. Brenda, however, is another story. If the OAHS was on to me, they had to be on to Brenda. I tried to notify her, so perhaps she got out before the OAHS could capture her. I hope she made it to Canada.

Sometimes I wish I knew who had turned us in. However, that would do me no good as I am here, locked in this rehabilitation / torture chamber somewhere near the Canadian border. At least I think I am still near Syracuse, New York.

Ah, the lights turned off for a few minutes and then back on. The random noises are onto amplified and distorted bird song. It sounded like screaming giant vulturine horrors. It ran for such a long, long time, louder and louder. More, and more birds joined the fracas of cacophonous bird chatter. The volume became Louder, and louder. Finally I had to stop writing and hold my ears for an eternity.

Finally, total silence.

God, I’m hungry!

Happy Birthday, Stephen!

2005-05-08T18:21:00.000-04:00

I dream that I am home in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I’m with Brenda, my best friend. It is my birthday and we are walking to my parents house. It is a bright and clear evening with no smog, no smoke, no humidity and a few brave stars sparkling in a deep navy blue sky that glows yellow and palest electric blue around the horizon.

“What did you get me,” I say.

“Stephen, you promised not to ask again.”

“I can’t help it. You always get me such absolutely weird stuff. I want to know before I open it at Mom and Dad’s and embarrass myself.”

“Now, why would I buy something that would embarrass you?”

“Because you know that I’ll actually like it.”

“You’re oxymoronic Stephen.”

“You are full of compliments,” I say facetiously.

“And you seem in especially high spirits this evening.”

“Yes.”

“Why? You have been such a worrywart lately. What has cheered you up?”

“A dream.”

“A good one evidently.”

“No. It was horrible.”

“How so?”

“I was taken by the OAHS and put through one of their experimental stations. I was put in a machine that was supposed to make me straight.”

“Did it?”

“No. Of course not, and I was waiting to die…”

“How did that cheer you up?”

“Instead, I’m here, with you.”

“So, I’m to be preferred to a nightmare about the OAHS,” she says as we tramp up the steps to my parents front porch.

“It’s strange though. I just seem to have jumped from that horrible place to this,” I say as I knock on the door.

“That doesn’t make sense?”

“I know - Nothing in between. I don’t remember what I did today. It’s as though I have been asleep all day, and woke up to find myself here, walking with you…”

The door opens and my mother says. “Hello, you two. What a beautiful evening, is it not? Come. Come on in. I’ve got your favorite dinner waiting, Stephen.”

“Chicken pot pie.”

“Yes. I made the noodles from scratch yesterday.”

“Wonderful!”

“I’m afraid that’s got to be the extent of your birthday, Stephen. Your father is still looking for a job.”

“Mom, I understand. No need for explanations.”

“It’s killing your father.”

“It can’t be helped. The economy is in terrible shape.”

“Let me have your jacket, Brenda. Your father’s in the living room Stephen. You two go in there and cheer him up. I’ve got to finish some things in the kitchen and then I’ll be in.”

I’m so filled with happiness. I’m home. I can’t help myself. I’m sorry my father is depressed. But, I’m home!

Alone in My Room

2005-05-01T15:16:00.000-04:00

WHF hasn’t been back. As usual, time doesn’t exist here in the Helltel, but I think it’s been days, the lights come on, and the lights go off with no set pattern. The speaker plays music sometimes, but mostly just random noises. For the longest time I heard arbitrary blips, like water drops falling one at a time into a small pool of water. There were also a series of blood curdling screams while lights were out the last time. When I did fall asleep, I dreamed of the “Personality Reconstruction Room” rape scene, and woke in a cold sweat. I was unable to go back to sleep and so I started counting and hoping to go into one of my traces, but then the screaming started again. I don’t think they’ve ever let me in here alone so long. I’m starting to worry that something is wrong. Perhaps they’ve given up on me, and the next time I see someone, it will be the person responsible for taking me out. Or, will they just gas me while I’m alone in my room? That would be the simplest method. Kill the fagot, come get the body and bury it.

But, that seems too easy. The general and WHF like mental anguish and pain too much. I wouldn’t put it past them to drag me back into the Personality Reassignment Room, turn the controls up to overload in order to fry my brain while that guard rips me apart with the night stick. Or, perhaps WHF will walk in the door, beat me to a pulp, pull out a gun, hold it to my head while he recites all kinds of nasty threats and finally blow my brains out. I know he’d feel a great deal of satisfaction in doing that.

Then too as I sit alone in my room waiting to die, I often think of Canada, so close, yet so far. That is the most frustrating part – to know that I will die before I get to Canada, the terminus of the Underground Railroad, and freedom. It is the place that so many black Americans fled to over a century-and-one-half ago. I see them in my mind’s eye as they stoop, and then on all fours kiss the ground, and praise God for delivering them to freedom. Their tears fall to the earth, and as I observe, so I become the observed. I am a black man. No, I am THE black man, feeling the history of all their sorrow. I rub my hands in the wet tear stained dirt. I pick it up and I rub it on my clothing, my hands and my face. I do this in remembrance, and I do it because I know they fought their way to freedom, and I have fought, but am not free. I do this because I feel as though the end is near. Yes, I feel the end like a lead weight and plumb line hung through the center of my being, and they point down, down, down to the flames of hell.

I Woke up in my old room.

2005-04-23T11:43:00.001-04:00

WHF was sitting in the chair next to me. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Zero.”

“I’m not in the black hole.”

“No.”

“I’m not dead.”

“Correct. But the way of your actual death will be very similar to what happened to you in the Personality Reassignment Room should you continue to prove to be so much trouble. Oh, I almost forgot. Your doppelganger is dead.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“What dopple…?”

“You know. The one who…”

“Who is straight, you mean the straight shadow who is going to take over my body. He was there in the black hole?”

“You and he were smashing the control room.”

“How exciting! I don’t believe in my shadow self, but if I did he wouldn’t be straight.”

“He wasn’t asshole.”

“Speaking of which, did you like it?

“Like it?”

“My asshole.”

“That wasn’t me. The entire thing was a simulation.”

“Someone has to play the parts.”

“What?”

“You just can’t think it, and make it happen.”

“It’s like a computer game, Zero, a program. The control room geeks write it. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“This time you can’t insult me. I’m not angry. It wasn’t me. It’s that simple.”

“So, why do it?”

“I have no idea.”

“You know what I think.”

“No, and I don’t want to know.”

“The general is trying to get rid of you. The virtual you likes fucking homosexuals - one step away from the actual thing.

“I can leave now.” He got up and headed for the door. “Next time you talk like that I’ll pound your face in.”

“Gee, fuck me, then beat me.”

“Fuck you!” He opened the door.

“You already did.”

He slammed the door shut so hard that the flower print on the wall next to it fell to the floor. The frame broke and the glass shattered.

Another Death

2005-04-14T06:18:00.000-04:00

I was chained to the slab. I had not had any food though a guard had appeared several times with a small cup of water. He would not talk.

I asked, "How long have I been here?" He did not answer. "Can I have something to eat?" He did not answer. "Are you going to starve me to death?" He did not answer.

I had urinated and defecated on the slab several times, and upon discovering me in that state the guard had picked up a garden type hose off the floor of the cell, washed me and the slab down with it, forcing the waste down a drain in the center of the floor. Each time he left the cell I was wet, cold and shivering.

The cell was always lighted. There was no other sound. I debated endlessly whether or not this might be the virtual reality of the Personality Reassignment Room. I went over the scene in the PRR control room repeatedly basking in the triumphant feeling that smashing the console and screens had given me. I tried to talk to Bud, but he did not answer. I did my counting trick in order to put myself into a trance. However, I had no way of knowing how long I had been in the cell.

Finally, every bone and muscle in my body ached as I had not been allowed to change position. I tried not to think about the pain, but found that it prevented me from going into a trance.

I began to cough and my chest hurt. I know I was feverish because I alternated with cold and hot sweats, shivering constantly. My chest became tighter and tighter. . I was not able to breath. Upon his next visit I begged the guard to do something. He hosed me down once again.

Pain and delirium owned me and I knew I was dieing.

I coughed blood and mucous until a lumpy puddle formed beneath my head.

I saw visions of the man in the silver foil suit.

“Help,” I said between coughing spasms.

“You will not die,” he said.

My chains held me fast as I tried to reach for him. He seemed to fade into the gray concrete walls, and I was racked with an overwhelming spasm of coughing.

Blood squirted out of my mouth, across my chest.

I was drinking blood.

I was drowning in blood.

I lost consciousness.

I woke on a hard metal slab.

2005-04-08T06:05:00.000-04:00

I was in a jail cell. There were three gray concrete walls, and an opening covered by a row of metal bars with a view of another gray concrete wall beyond. The room was about 5 by 7 feet, just large enough for the metal slab on which I, prone and naked lay lashed in place with hooks and chains. There was a space just wide enough for someone to stand and walk back and forth next to the slab. The cell was quiet, as though I were the only person present. I lay on my back staring at the ceiling and wondered if this was to be my death cell. Then too, I wondered if Bud and I had succeeded in destroying the Personality Reassignment Room? Where was Bud? “Bud,” I said silently and tentatively in my head. There was no answer. “Bud,” I said again. Still no answer. Was he dead, destroyed when “the black hole” went down? Or, was I still in the virtual space of the Personality Reassignment Room? I hadn’t realized I was there when WHF raped me. Bud figured that out when he was able to materialize.

I wondered how it was possible for these obsessive straight evangelical types like WHF to rape a man. But, had WHF actually raped me in the black hole? The act had to be performed in order to make the recording necessary for the virtual space of the black hole to create it, didn’t it? It couldn’t just be thought about. You would need actors to create the scene and action. And, I had been entered; I still hurt, from the forced entry. But, I had always returned to reality completely painless and physically repaired after my various virtual torture and death scenes in the Personality Reassignment Room. That meant I must still be in the black hole. If that were the case, no matter what happened, it wasn’t actually happening. Was it?

The silent and empty space was getting to me. I was hungry, thirsty, and I had to go to the bathroom. Would they just leave me here to starve to death, to die in my own waste? Yes. Virtual or actual, yes, they would.

What Is Virtual, and What Is Actual?

2005-04-02T11:12:00.000-05:00

Continued from Another Beating

“We’re in the black hole!” It was Bud, shouting in my head as I felt WHF’s fingers probing my ass with spit, before his big dick ripped into me.

“Yeah, you like that pansy-boy?” He thrust in as deep as posssible. Then pulled all the way out and slammed back in. With each thrust he lifted my head and smashed it into the floor.

“You’re just a top, fagot fucking a bottom fagot,” I shouted.

“No, Zero. This is power,” he said as he yanked my head back and spit in my face. Towering over us both stood Bud, with my bedside lamp raised in both hands, high above his head. Just as WHF pushed my face back into the carpet, I felt the thud as the lamp struck WHF’s head. His body jerked once before he fell limp against me, and I was pinned beneath him.

“Come on,” said Bud, “as he pushed WHF off of me. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He threw my jeans and shirt at me. “Quit rubbing your shoulder. I’m sure we don’t have long before they turn this thing off.”

“So, where can we go,” I said, wincing as I pulled my t-shirt over my head.

“Let’s head for the General’s office. Maybe we can wreck the Personality Reassignment Room.”

I pulled my jeans on as Bud threw my sneakers at me.

“Damn, we did it, he said. We’re both here in the same room, together.”

“In the same virtual room,” I said as I was tying my laces.” He kneeled down and tied the other sneaker, and I looked at the top of his buzz cut head. He is different than I am, I thought. I would never cut my hair like that.

“We’re out of here,” he said as he grabbed me by the arm and headed for the door. Once out of the room, we ran down the hall to the elevator. The door opened immediately upon pressing the down button, and we stepped in as I heard the sound of several pairs of running feet from the other end of the hall. Bud pressed the “close” button and the doors began to slide shut.

“There they are, in the elevator.” Two men in black suits rounded the corner and ran toward the elevator as the doors met and the elevator began to move.

“They’ll run down the stairs, Bud said.”

“I know.” The elevator stopped and the doors opened. We ran out the doors and to the general’s office. The door was open.

“This is too good to be true,” said Bud as we ran into the empire style room, shut the door and propped a chair against the handle to hold it shut.

“Maybe our acting independently has altered the program.”

“Where did the techs come from when they brought you here before.”

“The door is in that wall,” I said, pointing. “But it is seamless, so it’s hard to know where it is.”

“Shit,” he said as he felt the smooth surface of the wall. The suits had arrived and were banging on the door to the office.

“There must be a trigger from this side somewhere.” The banging at the door grew louder, and the chair threatened to break.

“Maybe there’s a switch at the general’s desk,” I said.

“Too hard. You’d have to go there before you could go to the control room.”

“That’s the idea,” I said as I rummaged around the desk. Suddenly the door opened whether because of my poking around the desk or Bud running his hand over the wall, I’ll never know. We both ran through the door and it closed behind us. The room was plain and empty; gray carpet, gray walls, gray ceiling, and a gray console against one wall with dials, pads, and screens covering it. Each screen held a different scene. Two showed the jail cell, guards and victim, the horror of my repeated death crashed over me like a wave. Bud had to shake me.

“It’s alright, Stephen.” You’re here. It’s other guys on those screens. He pushed me up to the screens. Look. They must do that to every guy they bring here. He pushed me up to the screens, and I saw a skinny blond guy on the bloody floor in the first screen, and a chubby red head on the second. “Look here.” He pulled me to a screen at the far end of the console, and I found myself looking at Bud and myself staring at a screen that held the two of us staring at a screen… you get the picture.

“Grab something and start smashing,” I said as I picked up one of the gray metal and plastic chairs and hurled it at the screen that held the torture and death scene of the blond guy. Bud picked up another and hurled it at the screen that held the view of the two of us smashing the console.”

“No, not that one” I said, as everything faded to black and I lost consciousness.

Another Beating

2005-03-27T09:25:00.000-05:00

WHF showed up again to take me to the exercise room. There was no way to tell how long it had been since they took me and beat me up the last time. I was prepared to go along without complaining because sitting alone in my room gets extremely lonely. Even though I know Bud is with me, I can’t talk to him out loud because we’ll be overheard. Instead, we speak silently in my head. He’s a bit bullish and immature, and he seems to think that we will be able to force our way out of here. He also thinks that I should stand up to WHF more often which would mean getting beat to a pulp even more thoroughly than I already do. Anyway, as I was saying, WHF swaggered into my room.

“Okay zero. We’re giving you another chance to improve your exercise routine without making a complete asshole of yourself. Get your workout duds on.”

I said nothing but proceeded to change into the appropriate clothing. As I took off my jeans and t-shirt, I strutted and posed for WHF as though I were trying to win a weight lifting championship.

“That’s pathetic, Zero. You’re too skinny to show off like that.”

“But I don’t want to have big muscles like those beefy weight lifter guys. You OAHS brutes don’t want me to look like that, I hope.”

“We just want you to be straight, Zero. And, that is beginning to seem like an impossibility, so you’ll probably end up here forever.”

“Or dead.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Come on, the government isn’t going to pay to keep me in this prison forever. There are too many folks having problems out there – what with social security, Medicare and Medicaid gone, and no other government programs to help them through these rough times. Besides, I’ve already disappeared, so it won’t be hard to deep six me.”

“Well, it would be your own damn fault.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m the evil fagot, and it’s aberrant people like me that caused the collapse of the Western family and the oil based economy of the United States.”

“You got it, except the economy of the United States didn’t collapse.”

“Yeah, right.”

"We're just going through a period of adjustment caused by the wars."

"And the Neo-conservative government that has done everything wrong since GW was elected in 2000."

"What's this? You have some warped gay take on history?"

"Just the actual truth of it."

“Okay, Zero.” He reached over and grabbed my by the left arm, pulled me toward him and twisted the arm behind me, and pulled upward. It felt as though my left shoulder were being ripped out of its socket. I could hear popping noises as he said. “I’ve had enough of your bull. Down on your knees.”

I yelled, “Jerk.”

He said. “Okay,” and yanked my left arm so hard I could feel sinews tearing. He threw me to the floor and kicked me between the legs, smashing my balls against the hard pelvis bone of my crotch. I screamed, trying to hold both my shoulder and crotch simultaneously. He put his right knee in my back and shoved my head against the floor with his left hand, grabbed a hand full of hair and lifted my head from the floor, then smashed it back into the rough carpet “On second thought, I think we’ll just rape the shit out of you ass hole.”

Workout

2005-03-21T06:02:00.000-05:00

WHF took me to the exercise room again and worked my ass off harder than he ever has before. He had me do sets of 12 instead of 10, and he made me do an extra set of every exercise. He had me running for two times the normal amount. I’m assuming that last - It sure felt like it - but the machines don’t have timers on them. The entire time he was abusive as hell, shouting in my ear, “push faggot! What’s-a-matter pussy-boy? Is it too hard? Zero’s a zero.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, Zero. You suck, literally! Come on boy, do another set.”

I was on the bench. He has me up to one hundred-forty pounds, and I was struggling with it. He added ten pounds more on each side, and I couldn’t do it and he stood there shouting at me.

“Come on ass-licker. What’s-a-matter cock sucker?”

“I haven’t lifted this much before. You could give a little assist.”

“What’s-at, Zero? You don’t think I’m doing my job?”

I could see what was coming, so I didn’t say anything. Two of the guards had moved in to stand on either side of the bench.

“Speak up, Zero. Let’s have it.” He brought his knees in against my head and held it in a vise-like grip. You can tell me off fagot.” I was staring up at his crotch and thinking that WHF probably has a Teeny-weenie. “I can take it, dick-licker!”

“You probably can. Your just a repressed homo yourself.”

“That’s what I want to hear. Okay boys, time to make whipped pansy.” He reached down, and lifted me off the bench and pinned my arms behind me. One of the guards kneed me while the other punched me hard in the gut. WHF let go and I fell to the floor. I thought they were going to kick me, but the three of them just stood watching me.

Finally, WHF said, “Poor little fruit can’t keep his mouth shut.”

WHF

2005-03-15T06:17:00.000-05:00

SUBJECT: Stephen Gulliver

DATE: March 15, 2025

RE: Resistance to change

We have placed Mr. Gulliver in a program that includes the following treatments.

1. isolation
2. assignation of derogatory name
3. emotional abuse
4. random minor physical abuse
5. temporal dislocation
6. randomized schedule
7. randomized cuisine – level 1
8. physical training
9. randomized visits to the PRC
Program levels 1 and 2

We have added extra items into the mix that include the following.

1. randomized bells
2. sleep deprivation
3. randomized cuisine – level 2
4. increased level of emotional abuse

We removed agent Richard Fox from Gulliver’s case as Mr. Fox became personally involved with the subject. Mr. Fox has been placed on the clandestine list of bureau personnel under investigation for latent homosexuality.

Mr. Gulliver continues to be an enigma. He seems to be more resistant to change than most gay male subjects. Of course that change is simply an aversion to act on or even to be able to recognize homosexual desires because of the extremely stressful and mentally painful exposure to the Personality Reassignment Chamber. Standard results to this level of training and exposure to the PRC include asexual behavior caused by fears associated with sexual arousal, or Inadequate but acceptable heterosexual behavior based on fear of homosexual orientation.

RECOMMENDATIONS:

1. increase number and duration of visits to the PRC
2. increase level of sleep deprivation
3. increase emotional and physical abuse to level 3
4. increase disruptions in temporal scheduling
5. place time limit on Mr. Gulliver’s training of 2 months

CONCLUSION:

Subject is to be terminated should he continue not to respond to training.

How Much Do They Know?

2005-03-10T06:11:00.000-05:00

The door opened and What’s-his-face strode to the bed. “You talking to yourself, Zero?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve been talking to my straight split half.”

“Didn’t sound like it.”

“So, you do listen. Do you record too? ”

“Just listen, and only if it seems necessary. One of the guards called and said you were plotting to destroy the Personality Reassignment Room.”

“Ridiculous. How would I do that, and why would my straight half let me?”

“Good point. So you’ve met him. You truly are a schizophrenic mess, Zero.”

“Yea, I guess. He’s pretty tough. Says he’s going to take over and get out of here.

“First he’s got to get rid of you.”

“How could he do that?.”

“Kill you during one of the Reassignment Room Programs.”

“Both of us can exist there, I mean, physically, at the same time?”

“And too cooperative. We’ll be listening more carefully now.”

He opened the door, and left, locking it carefully behind. I wonder if Bud and I can talk in my head without talking out loud. And, I guess, I must stop writing our conversations on paper. Or, perhaps I can misrepresent them on paper. Hell, I’m crazy anyway. I’m a split personality. Any, all of this could be pure malarkey.

Talking to Myself

2005-03-05T08:39:00.000-05:00

My Shadow Comes Out

“I’m not you. I’m Bud. And, I’m not a wimp like you. I won’t let them push me around the way you do, and I’m getting out of here.”

“As to the first, It’s a bit difficult to avoid, so I wish you luck. As to the second, good, I’m glad, because if you’re out, so am I. I’d like very much to know how you propose to do it?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of a way.”

“There is none.”

“How do you know? You haven’t even tried! You’ve just given in to them.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re dealing with the Office of Aberrant Human Services of the United States of America. It’s a police organization specifically created, funded, and trained to either cure us or kill us. There is no way out. There is only eventual death because I cannot change into a straight man. Why, I even get a hard on when they torture me to death in the Personality Reassignment Room. Despite the horror, and the pain, I get a hard on, because all those men are shouting at the guard to fuck me, and he’s shoving that black pole up my ass. How damned gay is that? I imagine that I will eventually learn to love being tortured to death. These bastards are taking me, once a healthy gay man, and turning me into a fucked up, sick faggot who likes being sexually abused and tortured to the point of death!”

“They won't be able to do that if I’m around.”

“I don’t see how my schizophrenic doppelganger can prevent it.”

“I can jump in and fight the bastards.”

“How? We are in the same body. We can’t be in two places at once.”

“Not in actual physical space. But, the black hole is a virtual space. Why can’t we both be present? ”

“We’d still be only two against ten or twelve of them.”

“We’ll have to wait for the right moment.”

“My death is always the same.”

“They’ve got to know that the plot will get old, and easier for you to handle. Didn’t the thing change last time?”

“Yes, I was straight, and I had a family.”

“Quite nonsensical.”

“U-m-m-m.”

“Well, that’s my point. There are variations. The next time we are not surrounded by guards, we both appear, just as we have now.”

"This is a dream."

"So is that, in a way."

"Yes, a nightmare!"

"So, I should be able to be there with you."

“But, even if we can do that, what do we do next?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to figure it out as we go.”

“Won’t they just turn the black hole off?”

“Perhaps. However, I’m willing to bet that nobody has thought to fight them before. They may not be watching, and perhaps we can to do all kinds of disruptive stuff before they notice. I’d like to break that damned thing if possible.”

We both heard the key being inserted in the lock.

I turned to look at the door. When I looked back at the chair, Bud was gone.

2005-02-27T22:39:00.000-05:00

Me and My Shadow: Part III

After I entertained myself in front of the mirror, I fell across the bed bare-ass naked. Laying there with my legs spread apart, butt side up, I fantasized that I was free and in Montreal. I was in my apartment. I had just nailed my partner, and now I was waiting for him to return from the bathroom, and pound my ass with his huge tool. I worked my pelvis in a circular motion, rubbing my cock against the sheets in anticipation. I imagined him; his body superimposed on a brilliant blue winter sky as I looked out the bedroom window. He was blond,blue eyed, muscular and tall with smooth tan skin. In my fantasy I could hear him huming softly in the bathroom. The sun was shining through the window, and it felt warm against my bare back.

"You coming?"

"I already did."

"You know what I mean."

Ah, the sun felt so good. His hands touched my warm back and he began to play his fingers lightly along my spine, gently tracing swirlying circles there.

I must have fallen asleep...

Because, I woke to see myself sitting in the chair across the room. He, I mean, I was staring at myself, like in a mirror, or in a dream though I felt as if I were awake.

“So you’re back in the land of the living.”

“No, I must be dreaming.”

“Why?”

“Because, I’m talking to myself, a naked self I might add.”

“So. We’re both naked. I wanted to see if I could turn you on. We are hot, you know.”

“I’m hot. Yes the workouts are paying off.”

“I’ve decided that I must be gay because when I watch you look at yourself in the mirror and masturbate I get turned on.”

“So do I. But, why am I talking to myself?”

To Be Continued

2005-02-23T06:00:00.000-05:00

Me and My Shadow: Part II

Yes. I do have a shadow, but he is not the shadow WHF would have me believe. I’ve found him out, you see.

I'll start at the beginning, though it’s hard to find a beginning in this place because, as I’ve said before, there is no day and / or night. There are no clocks, and no regular meals. The OAHS does everything it can to obliterate time in the Helltel. So, I’ll just start. My last visit to the gym with WHF is as good a place as any.

”You’re doing good, Zero. That chest is getting impressive, and so are the arms. The straight guy inside should be real happy. Have you named him yet," he said, and unlocked my door?"

“What’s to name? He doesn’t exist.”

“Ah, you mean to say you haven’t noticed the way things seem to move around in here? That chair for instance, it’s on the other side of the room. You usually keep it by the bed.”

“I decided I didn’t like it next to the bed. I get bored, so I moved it.”

“You don’t have dreams that someone sits in the room with you when the lights go out?”

“Yes. It’s you hiding in the dark. I can hear you breathing.”

“That’s not me Gulliver. I go home when you sleep.”

“That must be awkward arriving home at different times of the day and night. What does your wife have to say about your schedule?”

“It won’t work, Zero. I’m not telling you anything about my life outside of the OAHS.”

“What? Why should I want to know about your boring hetero life with your boring wife, boring kids, and boring predictable hate filled evangelical church?”

“Watch it, Zero. You’re getting close to my temper zone. I’ll beat your gay pin-head into the floor if you keep it up.”

“One of these days, perhaps I’ll be too strong for you, and I’ll kick your little pin-dick-head into your crotch before I lay you low and grind your face into the floor.”

“Good luck, Zero! I guess, rather than smash you, this time I’ll just leave you alone with your straight phantom. But you’d better watch your tone and attitude, because if you talk to me like that again, I’ll call the general in, and the two of us will work you over together.”

“Class ‘A’ bullies.”

“You got it. And if you want the two bullies to beat you to a pulp, just keep it up,” he said as he went out the door.

I listened to his key tumble the lock and lay down on my bed exhausted both from the physical work out, and the banter. I worry about being physically beaten. It comes randomly when I least expect it, so a conversation like the one I’ve recorded here can lead to a beating, or not. I never know.

I am heading somewhere with this, I promise. More next time about discovering the identity of my shadow. However, I'm going to stop for now and do my mirror thing.

2005-02-18T11:31:00.000-05:00

Me and My Shadow

WHF has been more annoying than usual. He’s convinced that I’m Schizophrenic and have a split personality, a straight half and a gay half, which would put me smack in the middle of the discredited Kinsey scale. What? You say? Discredited! When?

Yes. Isaac and I talk often in dreams. The conversations occur while I am asleep, and Isaac tells me that the process of discrediting Kinsey’s work has already begun in your year 2005. The Karl Rove propaganda machine has swung into high gear with rumored innuendoes concerning Kinsey’s sexuality. I’m sure you’ve heard them already, that he molested children, that both he and his wife were bisexual, and of course, if these things be true, the "Rovian" inference that the Kinsey’s work was and is tainted by their own sexual misconduct has already been inserted into the American cultural consciousness in 2005. Today, in 2025, Kinsey is seen as an aberrant sexual predator who devised his studies in order to excuse both he and his wife’s aberrant conduct. There is but one sexuality, “Heterosexuality,” with a capital H. In fact, there are but two recognized sexualities, hetero and homo. All other variations are not recognized, and homosexuality must be destroyed. Missionary position Heterosexual, married (defined as between a man and a woman) sex is the only acceptable sex in the United States of Evangelical America. But, I digress.

WHF (What’s-his-face) claims that I am soon to be ambushed and devoured by a straight shadow self that lurks below the surface of my consciousness. I find that possibility to be frightening because I myself have observed things moved about in my room at the Helltel. I put a pencil in the bed stand drawer, and later it’s on the table by the blank window (It’s painted silver on the outside and bolted shut.). I receive a meal while I’m asleep, and half of the strange concoctions are eaten when I wake. My chair is moved about the room from day to day though I always leave it in the corner next to the bed. It is almost as though someone else is living here in hiding, and wishes to let the cat out of the bag, so to speak. I know I see shadows, deeper depths in the darkest spaces in the room when the lights are out as though there is another, a phantom, living in the dark heart of this evil place.

WHF has taken me to exercise three times since my last visit to the Personality Reassignment Facility, and I am becoming quite the hunk, I must say. I think they’re putting steroids in my food because I have incredible energy when I exercise, and I’m looking quite chiseled. The fat around my middle is slowly dissipating, and my waist is down to 32 from 35 inches. My arms are hard and almost an inch larger around at 15 and 1/2 than they were back in October of 2024. My chest is up to 42 from 39. I am pleased, and I’ve become quite narcissistic about it. Since there is so little to do here, I find myself stripping and gazing into the mirror at my reflection and masturbating. There, I’ve said it, I’ve become onanistic, another type of sexuality that is no longer recognized today. I wouldn’t be surprised if the government doesn’t force old Miriam to remove the word from her dicktionary (pun intended). Read this Herr General, and weep. Your gay man, Stephen Gulliver has become a homosexual onanistic maniac instead of just a gay man.

2005-02-14T06:00:00.000-05:00

The Helltel Flu

I’ve been out of it pretty much for a week. I ran a temperature of 104 and was delirious. At least that’s what WHF tells me.

“You kept saying Gulliver’s an asshole.”

“Why would I say such a thing?”

“Maybe you’re finally learning to hate your gay persona.”

“Right, like I’m two people. I was sick damn it.”

“Just telling you what you said.”

“Like I said, I was sick.”

“You also said that you were going to leave Gulliver behind.”

“Sure, my new straight self will just crawl out of this body and leave me behind.”

”Actually, I think it was the other way around. Your straight self plans on kicking you out of your body and walking away with it.”

“You’re just trying to get me cranked.”

“True enough.”

“People can say pretty strange things when they’re delirious.”

“No, Zero, I think the Personality Reassignment Room is doing exactly what it’s supposed to. There’s a straight you inside that’s going to rip through the old pathetic fagot outer shell. In fact, you are the egg white and the straight guy is feeding on you right now. Eventually he’ll break through the shell, shatter it to pieces and leave it and you behind.”

“If he’s eating me, he’s queer too.”

“Ah, so pathetic. You’re dieing Zero, and you know it.” He stood. “During your delirium, the straight guy inside you got stronger, and you got weaker. One of these days I’ll come through this door, and he’ll greet me instead of you.” He opened the door and left.

I tried to refute his words in the empty silence of this room, talking out loud as though there was someone else present.

“I’m not leaving! Do you hear me? I’m staying right here!” There was only more silence.

While I was sick, tossing in the bed half crazed, I did see another person in my room. The guy was sitting in the chair next to my bed where Dick used to sit, and he was staring at me. I was hot and cold, sweating all over, and every joint hurt. When I vomited, he held the pan for me. He looked sort of like Dick. Was I dreaming? If it was the straight persona who is going to take over my body, why would he help me? And, if there is a straight guy inside struggling to get out, what will become of me if he wins?

Will I die?

2005-02-08T21:39:00.000-05:00

Back In My Room at The Helltel

I woke up feeling like I’d been beaten with a stick, and I was sure I had the flu. I was nauseous and running a temperature. I also felt like I had been away somewhere, as though I had misplaced some time, though I’m not sure how that’s possible in this place since there are no clocks, TV, nor radio, thus no way to tell time.

WHF (What’s-his-face?) was in to see me a while ago and he acted weird, even for him.

“Well, well, what have we here, Mr. man? He’s not Zero. He’s Stephen again. That’s you isn’t it? Stephen?

“What kind of idiocy are you pulling now? Of course I’m Stephen. You’re torture machine doesn’t work. I’m still me, Stephen Gulliver, gay man.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“You didn’t eat your last meal.”

“I don’t feel good, and I’m not hungry. Your damned machine has made me sick. Besides, who could eat eggs toast, and sauerkraut? That’s the worst combination of food you folks have invented to date. Which reminds me. What is the date? How long have I been in this hole?”

“Okay,” he said. “You’re fine,” and left, locking the door behind.

So, once again I’ve been left to my own devices. When not writing, I count my breaths, and go into a trance. However, it’s weird because I don’t feel relaxed after a trance, just more tense, and upset. It’s as though someone else has been here. Things are moved around. The chair next to my bed was back in the corner after the last time I zoned-out. I didn’t remember moving it. I wonder if this is a new OAHS strategy to make me lose my mind. Perhaps they think they can convince me I’m nuts and send me to an actual insane asylum and loose me forever. But, no, that would cost too much money – and, since G.W. Bush, Jeb Bush, and their successors have spent us into total bankruptcy - the government can’t afford to keep asylums running.

No. Sooner or later, probably sooner, they have to convince me that I’m straight, or kill me. The government can’t afford to keep a gay man in the helltel forever. I know that.

I guess I should fake it and pretend to be straight. Of course, they read this journal, so they will know, though neither The General, nor WHF have ever talked about reading my journal. However, I know they do. Why else would they let me keep it? It’s the one thing that allows me to actually spend time engaged in meaningful activity. The words I write are like seconds, and sentences like minutes. Time advances though I make mistakes, cross-outs, and corrections. And on a day when the writing goes well, I have these pages to look at, and I can count them.

Shit! WHF is back. I hear his key in the door.

2005-02-02T06:17:00.000-05:00

Multiple Personality

I am in a tub. A man and woman in white are scrubbing me down and rinsing me off.

“Yeah, he messed himself.”

“They all do. Poor bastards.”

“And we have to clean them up. It’s disgusting.”

“Why’d you become a nurse’s aid?”

“Not to clean shit and vomit off queers!”

“Hate the sin, not the sinner.”

“That’s a crock. I wonder, what do they do to them in there.”

“What would make you shit, piss, and vomit all at once?”

“But, he’s not dead.”

“No, I’m not,” I say.

“Holly shit!” the man says.

“You’re not supposed to be awake.” The woman says.

“But, I am. Who are you, and why are you bathing me?”

“You don’t remember?"

“No.”

“I’m going to go call doctor Jim,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He leaves the bathroom, but picks up a telephone just outside the door. “I need Dr. Jim, now,” he says in a sharp commanding voice. The female nurse, she is about thirty, dark hair, brown eyes, big nose, and over weight, sits next to the tub looking at me as though I am an alien from outer space.

“I won’t bite,” I say, trying to reassure her.

“You shut up,” she says. You aren’t supposed to be awake and talking.

“But...”

“Just shut up!”

I am trying to make sense of it all. Now I remember the silver man vaguely, and the pain and suffering before, but as though I am recalling a film clip or vidio from another life. The prison, torture, and death scene seem shrouded in gauze, separated from me by an invisible wall that offers protection. It seems as though everything has happened to someone else. His name is Stephen Gulliver. I don't know who I am, yet, but I am not Stephen. I’m not like Stephen. Nobody would ever torture me and kill me.

No, Sir. I am going to get out of this OAHS hellhole. I ask myself if I am gay, like Stephen.

I don’t know.

What shall I call myself?

I don't know.

I wonder if I should let Gulliver / Zero know I exist.

I don’t know.

How will I keep this journal from Gulliver?

I don’t know.

2005-01-25T06:09:00.000-05:00

Straight Heaven

The sun makes two big trapezoids on my bedroom floor. There is a bird outside on the sill, singing its heart out, and a light breeze ruffles the leaves on the cherry tree outside the window. The bedroom door opens and there she stands, Heather, my wife.

“Aren’t you up yet, lazy bones?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Church, Stephen.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” she says sweetly. “You are saved. God loves you. We have to set an example for Susan and Teddy. Up, Up,” she commands.

My son and daughter burst into the room and jump onto the bed. “Daddy, Daddy! Teddy says that God loves everybody, even gay people.”

“He does.”

“But why?”

“God loves the person, but hates their sin, sweetie.” The words tumble from my mouth automatically. I am two people. I am this dunderhead of a sweet man, who mutters prejudiced plattitudes. However, beneath that persona, the thoughts in my head spin - his mixing with mine, and I feel sick to my stomach.

“But, they’re not going to heaven are they?”

“No. Only people like us, people who are reborn in Jesus Christ can go to heaven.”

“Can’t they be reborn?”

“Ofcourse.”

“But, they would still be gay.”

“A gay person can be reborn in Jesus only if they choose to change completely. Or, if they refuse to act upon their sinful desires.”

“So they wouldn’t be gay anymore.”

“That’s right.”

“Why does God make them gay in the first place?”

“Enough questions,” this man who is, but isn’t me says. “Let’s go down to breakfast. Your mother promised pancakes this morning.”

“Pancakes. Yea-a-a-a-a-a!” Both Susan and Teddy are jumping up and down on the bed. My stomach is rolling. I get up and stagger into the bathroom, close the door, kneel before the toilet, and vomit.

“Stephen! Stephen!”

“Take the children down to the kitchen. I’ll be there in a minute.” I manage to spit the words out between choking up more yellow bile.

I feel feint, and my head hurts. I lean my head against my arm on the toilet rim. Everything is spinning, and darkness gathers. I black out and when I come to, I’m on the prison floor once again, and the huge guard is fucking me with his night stick. The others are shouting “Kill the shit fucker.”

I can’t scream anymore.

The universe is pain,

And I am filled with

A gathering darkness

And I see

The tableau frozen

Through a long tunnel.

I ejaculate again,

And I float above

Looking down at the

Shouting guards.

And the huge guard stands up

In slow motion.

He leaves behind

The bloody night stick

Deep in my Ass.

And once again

In slow motion,

He pulls his gun

from holster, and

In slow motion

Aims the gun,

Shoots in slow motion,

Over and over again,

In slow motion.

And pieces of bone,

Brain, and blood splatter

In slow motion

His legs, the other guards,

The walls of the cell,

In slow motion.

2005-01-21T05:32:00.000-05:00

Another Trip to the Black Hole

WHF unlocked the door as usual, and walked in the room without a “Hi,” Hello,” or “Hey.”

“Let’s go Zero.”

“Where are my work-out clothes?”

“You’re not going to work-out. It’s time for your next trip to the Personality Reassignment Room.”

“You mean the black hole torture machine.”

“Call it whatever you like. That’s where you’re going.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“What if I really die?”

“Better dead than gay is what I say.”

“Thanks for the concern.”

“Let’s go, Zero.”

“Sweet Jesus, I’m scared.”

“Don’t take the lord’s name in vane, fagot!”

“I was praying.”

His fist smashed into my face and I flew across the room, fell against the wall, and slid down to the floor the way you see people do in the movies. He was on me in a second and his huge hand grasped my shirt in front of the neck and twisted it until the air was cut off. “Get up you fruit cake bastard. Neither God, Jesus, or the Holly Ghost are going to help you.” He dragged me across the room, opened the door, and threw me into the hall. I tripped and fell on my face.

“Get up, pansy-man.”

I groaned and tried to stand up, but fell down again.

“You pathetic...” He reached down and picked me up like a sack of flour and commanded; “walk!” I stumbled forward with WHF holding me up and pushing me toward the elevator at the same time. We walked the entire distance to “the general’s office that way. Upon reaching the office door, WHF knocked.

“Come in.” WHF opened the door and shoved me into the ornate empire style room and closed the door behind. I was still woozy and I could feel the blood trickling from my mouth, over my chin, and down my neck.”

“What’s this? You’re bleeding, Zero.” The General shook his head, and muttered, “I guess we’ll have to turn the juice up on the PRA, that’s Personality Reassignment Apparatus, Zero. It seems you haven’t responded very well.” The doors behind his desk slid open once again revealing the blacker than black pit behind. “You know the drill. Go ahead in and lie down on the floor.”

I shuffled forward slowly my head still spinning.

“Ah, Zero. Do I need to help you in? I know you don’t want me to help you. Walk in like a man, Zero.”

I tried to imitate a normal walk, lifting my feet carefully and hoping that I would not feint.

“That’s better, boy.”

The doors closed behind me and I lay down on the soft spongy black velvety floor and waited for the nightmare to start.

2005-01-16T13:54:00.000-05:00

Exercising with What’s-his-face

He never did tell me his name, but he’s a real martinet (slave driver). I’ll be the most beautifully made straight man in North America if the OAHS succeeds with personality reassignment. I wonder why all this fuss about my body. It’s sort of a weird reversal of the gay concern for beauty in all things (in itself a generalization about gay men, Stephen). Most straight guys I know are slobs. If they take care of their bodies, it’s because they need the body to play a sport, and / or because they have the need to be bigger, more formidable, MEN. It’s a macho thing. I guess that’s what this is about too. It’s a MACHO thing. Perhaps the OAHS thinks that if they make a gay guy more buff, he’ll be more athletic, and athletics -whether “tis” true or not- are equated with macho straight men. All kinds of dumb cultural stuff there, but perhaps it’s me. Perhaps because of the reassignment therapy I’m confused. Perhaps making me more buff and cut will make me straight.

Not.

I’ve been to the gym with What’s-his-face (WHF) 3 times now. It’s not enjoyable the way it was with Dick. We don’t talk except when WHF counts my sets and reps, or yells, “you can do it, Whimp.” Sometimes he says, “Squeeze it out, fagot,” when he has to grab the dumb bell and help me with one last burned out rep. WHF is tall, bald, and I guess handsome, except I’m not sure. It’s really hard to see a guy as handsome when his dome is empty and shinning in the gym lights. He has pale blue expressionless eyes. They are like ice. His features are chiseled and hard too, as though cut from glacial ice. He is very controlled, and because of that, he scares me.

I don’t know what happened to Dick. I had thought we were becoming friends. Maybe he felt as thought the friendship was interfering with his job. Maybe he put in for a transfer because of our fight. Maybe he really hates me and I just imagined the friendship.

2005-01-12T21:38:00.000-05:00

The New Trainer

As I’ve explained, there are no clocks in the Helltel. The lights turn on and off at random. It may have been one day, or two, perhaps three. Food appeared, and dishes were removed, but never in prescribed cultural formula. Cereal might be served with a slice of beef, a chicken sandwich with coffee and orange juice, chocolate cake and an apple with 2 slices of bacon. I played mental games, like counting between meals, or conjugating verbs ad "nausium." As an authority on boredom I can definitely say that counting is the more mesmerizing activity of the two. I am now able to go into a timeless trance after counting though I cannot tell you the exact number at which I fade into a mindless state because it varies, and because I am not aware of the time between sinking into the trance and resurfacing. However, I know that I descend below ordinary consciousness like a submariner to a place that is without knowledge or emotion, a deep and dark seascape that is nonetheless quiet and warm, like a tropical sea at night. I hope this is a good thing, but I worry that it might be evidence the OAHS’ torture device is working, and I am beginning to lose my mind.

I sit in the chair next to my bed, counting my way into a trance when I hear the sound of the key in the door lock. A tall man, shaved head, navy blue suit enters the room and stands just inside the door staring at me.

“Zero,” he says.

“It’s Stephen.”

“Not if you know what’s good for you.”

“Where’s Dick?”

“Dick who?”

“Dick, my trainer.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Okay, I get it. No clocks. No TV. No radio. No Dick.”

“Just Zero, nothing, an empty space,” he says.

“No,” I say. I’m still here.

“No point arguing with a Zero. It’s time to exercise.” He throws shorts, jock, t-shirt, and sneakers at me. “You know the drill. Strip and put these on.”

“What if I don’t? I don’t like to strip except for Dick.”

“I’m sure. It doesn’t matter, but you don’t want me to have to leave without you.”

“Why?”

“Just put the clothes on.” I don't move, and he continues.” I’m only saying this one time. I leave, and the General is the next person who will walk through this door. He’ll beat the shit out of you, and then he’ll drag you bleeding to his office and throw you into The Personality Reassignment Room.”

“I’ve been there.”

“Two times.”

“So, you’re telling me that the actual, real torture will start.”

“No. I’m telling you that The General has a terrible temper, and you don’t want to be on the receiving end.”

“I’ve already been there.”

“So, you know. Put the clothes on and let’s go.”

“But, I want Dick.”

“Dick’s not here. I’m leaving now.”

“No. Don’t. I got up and started removing my clothes. See, I’m changing.”

2005-01-06T06:02:00.000-05:00

Dick in the Dark

I hear breathing, soft, next to the bed. I don’t open my eyes because I know there are no lights, and I also know Dick sits sprawled in a chair nearby. “Hey,” I say.

“You’re still here.”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s me.” He sighs, and I wonder if it is with relief, or exasperation.

“Were you expecting a vegetable?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. ”

“I could be a vegetable. You haven’t asked my name.”

“I don’t need to. You know me.”

“That’s true. You’re the jerk that walks me to the black hole when I’m to be tortured until death do us part.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Too bad. It’s true.”

“Did you ever stop to think that I might like helping you guys to become real men?”

“I am a real man.”

“A real sinning man.”

“If you’re evangelical, that’s what I am.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, our government is increasingly concerned that gay men be converted into straight men.”

“Yes. That’s what I like about our government. It has managed to adhere so well to our founding father’s principle, the separation of church and state that it has allowed the evangelical church to dictate state policy.

“The evangelical church does not.”

“Are you evangelical Dick? Are you reborn? Do you like watching us fagots get zapped in the black hole until are brains are burned out husks?”

“That’s enough.”

“Are you one of the chosen who will go to heaven while the rest of us burn in hell?”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Are you afraid that the pansies will queer your families, and take over the country?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you are afraid that us gay folk are a threat to the institution of heterosexual marriage, and that we will convert your children to little fagots and dykes.

“You are an evil gay fuck!”

“And I suppose your idea of goodness and light is the black hole.”

“I’m out of here ass hole eater.” I hear him get up and his chair slams into the side of the bed. There are three heavy footfalls on the carpeted floor before he opens the door and a wedge of light flashes across the bed. I see his naked muscular silhouette and then he slams the door shut with a thud. I sit up in bed, and breathing heavily, I reach for the light switch. I flick it up but of course nothing happens, so I stumble out of bed and to the door, grasp the knob and try to open it. It is locked, so I kick the door and shout.

“Dick!”

There is no answer.

2004-12-24T09:45:00.000-05:00

Back In My Cell at the Helltel

I’m horrified by the violence of the virtual reality of the visions the OAHS is able to conjure. I have felt the extreme pain of being tortured until death two times, and I dread having to go through that process again. However, the SILVER MAN has saved me again. I’m using capitol letters because I know that without him I would be gone. In my place, an empty shell would be here ready to be filled with Anglo-evangelical zeal along with the concomitant fear and hate of women who desire control over their bodies, gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transgendered people, and people of other religious faiths, and ethnicities.

As I write I am aware that there are many questions I must answer. First, I wonder, will the OAHS succeed in emptying this body of my personhood? Second, who / what is this SILVER MAN? Where does he come from? How is it that he seems to inhabit my person as a companion and / or friend? Will I perhaps succeed with his help in preventing the OAHS from destroying me or is that too much to hope for? What was Dick hinting at when he said, “You don’t want to see the alternative to surviving the Black Hole?" Will they kill me if I survive?

Canada is out there somewhere. I was close to the border when they caught me. Is there any chance that I will I be able to escape the Helltel and find my way to Canada and freedom?

2004-12-20T06:03:00.000-05:00

The Return of the Silver Man: Part II

Once again, Stephen has been put in “The Black Hole,” the OAHS (Office of Aberrant Human Services) virtual reality device and has been physically present for his own torture and death at the hands of guards in an Abu Ghraib like prison. After his death he has had an out of the body experience that is not part of the OAHS plan for his “personality reassignment.”

“But, they are on God’s side.”

“Can't you see

The devil and hate

In their deeds?

God is perfect, and

God created you.

God is always

Sane and just.

Man is sometimes

Insane and unjust.

However, God loves us all,

Neo-cons, and

Evangelicals too.

But, most importantly,

God loves you

I know that

God looks forward

To the day when

Evangelicals will find

A way to believe,

That does not need

The devils twin dark angels

Fear and Hate to hold it up.

God bless you, Stephen Gulliver.”

The light concentrated

To a point.

The silver man

Turned and walked

Into the point,

And, the light condensed

And became an

Infinitely bright spot.

The silver man seemed to flash

And sparkle and

Vanished into it.

And the light was gone.

2004-12-18T09:52:00.000-05:00

The Return of the Silver Man

Silence.

All around,

Silence and

White,

And there

In the distance,

A glowing

Form.

Reflected light

From Silver

Shines

And spectral

Glittering

Flashes about

A voice

In my head,

But not.

For I have no head

But a voice

Nonetheless

And it says.

“I love you.

God loves you.

Jesus loves you.”

“You’re back,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“I died.”

“No.

These people

The agents

Of hell

Fake death,

To remove you,

In order to

Make a man who

Possesses no

Divine spark,

Just an empty thing

That fits

Evil evangelical

World’s end vision.”

2004-12-05T10:06:00.000-05:00

The Black Hole Revisited

“The General” shouted through the cracked door.

“Okay, Gulliver. The door’s open.”

I pushed the door open and stepped into the general’s posh Empire style office. I think sometimes that military people picture the USA as the New Rome, eventhough its obvious the war in the Mideast has sapped the country of its financial stability, hasn’t done a thing to rid the world of terrorism, has killed tens of thousands of innocent women and children, not to mention our own men and women in the armed forces, and brought us to the brink of World War III. However, they are somehow able to maintain the illusion of empire through scapegoating LGBT peoples even as we lose the world and our position in it.

“Well, there you are. I see Dick’s got you looking a bit more like a man instead of a Pillsbury-Doughboy-fruitcake.”

“Yep, he’s done his job.”

“Yes, Sir,” he said.

“It’s not going to work this time. I know how your intimidation works.”

He was around the desk before I could move and he kneed me in the groin. It felt as though my nuts had been placed permanently in a vise, and the pain radiated out to my legs and stomach. I doubled over on the floor and he kicked me in the side. “Now get up you God forsaken mewling fagot. You will say, 'yes Sir' when you address me.” I was unable to answer so he kicked me again. “Stay on the floor and cry. The techs will be in for you in a minute and I have work to do.” He returned to his desk, and began shuffling through a stack of papers. The Doors behind the desk parted silently and the techs came in, picked me up off the floor, and carried me around the desk toward the black hole.

“Stop,” he said as we came toward his chair. He reached over and caressed my butt. “Enjoy, Zero. May God give you your new heterosexual identity soon so we can stop causing you so much pain.”

I managed to choke out, “I can tell it’s bothering you.”

“Do it,” he said, and the white-coats dragged me into the hole, dropped me on to the floor and this time I saw them disappear through an opening on the other side of the room.

Immediately I was back on that blood soaked floor,the massive guard kneeling over me with his night stick shoved deep into my body,ripping it in and out, blood and guts spilling out of my erupting ass, the other guards shouting, “kill the faggot.”

Searing burn inside my guts,

“Kill the shit fucker!”

Lightning stabs in the dark,

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

The pain that filled my body

Seemed to escape beyond,

Filling the universe and,

My death spasms as

I ejaculated,

And left my body.

Even as the frozen tableau of shouting guards was

Suddenly below,

The white light appeared through the aura of pain, and

I hovered above the cell.

The guards reanimated,

Chanting their hate.

And, I watched,

As my murderer stood,

Pulled his gun,

Aimed and shot

Bullet after bullet

Into my head,

And pieces of bone,

Brain, and blood splattered

His legs, the other guards,

The walls of the cell,

Until a bloody stump lay

With tubes and shattered bone,

Blood oozing out

Into the red

Lumpy sea

On the floor.

2004-11-25T11:31:00.000-05:00

My Worst Nightmare

I was covered in sweat. The scream stillhung in my mouth. The breath escaped my lungs in ragged gasps. I was sittingup in bed staring into the dark space of my room in "The Helltel."

“Must have been a bad one,” Dick said.

“Yes.”

“Too bad.” And he let those two words hang in the black-velvety air, said nothing more.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not telling me... I’m going back to "Black Hole," aren’t I? They're going to try to scare me straight again. Aren’t they? So, how will I die this time? Will evangelical fanatics hang me on a cross?”

“That’s not fair, Gulliver. They’re trying to help you.”

“Yeah right. "The General" is going to cure me of my homosexuality by having me live through my own rape and death over and over again.”

“If that’s what does it, so be it.”

“Tell you what Dick. Why don’t you go in for me today.”

“I’m not gay.”

“No. What are you then? Why do you get your jollies by helping me sculpt my body into the perfect body? Why do you get so much entertainment sitting in that chair next to me, in the dark, listening to me breath? What is that?"

“It’s my job.”

“Are you supposed to be making me horny or something?”

“If that were my purpose, I would be succeeding, wouldn’t I? I’ve read your journal, Gulliver. I know you think I’m hot.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? You’re a spy.”

“I’m your physical trainer, and I thought we were becoming friends.”

“No. You’re a spy.”

“Be that as it may, you need to get up so we can head to the General’s office. You know the routine. Take the underwear off. Put the robe on.”

“And you watch. That how you get your jollies?”

“Only if you grew two breasts and we chopped your dick off.”

“So that’s what you like. You like tranies.”

“Shut up and get out of those skivvies.”

After I had undressed, Dick said that my workouts were already paying off. He had me pose and look in a mirror.

“Look at the new you,” he said. “Now, let’s go. You have an appointment to become the straight you.” We took the now familiar walk to the elevator and then to “The General’s” office. At the door, he said, “Goodbye, Gulliver. Iprobably won’t see you again. May God grant that you become straight. You don’t want to see the consequences of that not happening.” He turned and walked down the hall, knocked on a door at the far end, and exited. I was shocked to realize that I was crying.

2004-11-21T10:26:00.000-05:00

Bad Dreams

The lights still go on and off at irregular intervals. I lie awake unable to sleep because my body’s clock is lost in time. Often when I do sleep I have terrible nightmares in which I am back in that cell being raped and murdered. I wake from these covered in sweat, shaking and crying. Sometimes as I lie in the dark, I know that Dick sits in the chair next to my bed. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I just know he’s there, close enough that I can feel his body heat.

I like Dick, even though his "dark-time" habit of sitting next to me gives me the creeps. Actually, I have to admit to myself that I think he’s hot, and if I weren’t in THE HELLTEL, I’d make a move on him. He still takes me to the gym. I can’t tell if it’s a particular schedule we follow, though there is always a meal about an hour before I go, and I have another about an hour after I come back. I am enjoying the exercise, but I am always frightened when Dick comes to my room, because I know that one day, he will escort me to the General’s office, and the torture chamber.

The silver man hasn’t been back.

2004-11-14T11:59:00.000-05:00

The Trainer Hunk

The room was still dark when I woke up, but I knew I wasn’t alone.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“You’re the buff trainer guy who took me to the torture chamber. How long have you been here?”

“Only about ten minutes.”

“Why are you here?

“I like listening to queers snore.”

“Right,” I said.

“You’re still totally in tact aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good? You mean you don’t want the fagot frog changed into a straight fairy prince?”

“That’s good. I like that, Gulliver. Actually it is good thing. It’s extremely difficult to work with a man who is almost catatonic, or schizophrenic. It’s time to get "cracken." Up and at-um, Gulliver.”

The lights came on to reveal his perfect body and handsome, boyish face. He wore an extremely tight and revealing leotard-like uniform with shorts, and beat up sneakers. And, he sprawled in the chair next to and facing the bed, with legs spread in that masculine, crotch exposing slouch that so many straight guys strike when lounging about with friends. I’ve often wondered if it’s a subconscious invitation. Or, perhaps it’s a disarming bit of body language; sort of like saying, here I am. I’m tough. But, my genitals are exposed to you. Peace, brother.

“So, do you have a name,” I asked.

“Dick,”

“How appropriate.”

“Thanks. I do have a big one.”

“Do you want to play show and tell?”

“Sure. I’m going to show you what I want you to do. Then I’ll tell you how many times to do it. Eat your breakfast and get dressed.” He pointed to the table next to the bed, which was loaded with fruit, cereal, eggs, toast, milk and juice. “We’re "gon-na" get rid of some of that flab, Bub.”

It turns out that The Helltel has an unbelievable exercise room and regulation size pool. Dick did work my butt off, and I ache from head to toe. I can’t figure out how this place works. One day they’re trying to drive me crazy by staging my virtual death by sexual torture. The next I have a personal trainer who seems to be the nicest guy-next-door type imaginable, and who seems to be honestly interested in helping me to be more healthy physically.

At the same time, I’m stressing about the next session in the torture chamber. Dick said not to worry about it, that it’s going to happen, and worrying won’t prevent it.

That's easy for him to say.

2004-11-05T06:19:00.000-05:00

The Silver Man

The spot of white light grew, as though I were running through a tunnel, though I couldn't ‘t run. I had no feet. I had no body. I was energy, or perhaps spirit. The light became larger and I could see a silhouetted figure light-shrouded there, as though the astral energy reached about him and reflected from him. He shone and sparkled with it more and more as I approached.

My forward motion slowed, and I realized, he was literally, a silver man. It was as though he wore a suit of shiny aluminum foil.

“Who are you,” I said. Though we didn’t talk. I can’t say how we spoke, but the words formed, or were there in my head, soundless speech.

“My name is Isaac, and I come from an alternate reality that has just joined with yours. I am twenty years in your past, and George W. Bush has just won his second term in office.”

“I’ve dreamed you before. But you weren’t silver, and you never spoke with me. I just knew you were with me, almost like part of me.”

“Yes.”

“When you are here, do you see and hear, feel, and know everything that I know?”

“Yes.”

“Am I still Stephen Gulliver?”

“Yes. Their brain torture didn’t work.””

“Thank God."

“They certainly wouldn't think that God has anything to do with saving you."

"They would be wrong."

"This was only a first step, Stephen. And, you are still asleep. Perhaps if you had wakened without us having the chance to talk, who knows?"

“I thought I died.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I think it’s some kind of recording that you smell, taste, and feel, as well as hear and see. Because I looked at my hand and arm, and it wasn’t mine.”

“Still, It had to happen to someone in order for them to record everything, including the pain.”

“How long were you there?”

“Just at the end. Just as you died.”

“But I’m not dead.”

“Apparently not, just a man made nightmare, smell-lo-vision, feel-o-vision. Whatever you want to call it.”

“I’m still Stephen, I mean, I’m still me.”

“Yes. But it’s best you acted confused.”

“And frightened. I am very frightened.”

“That too.”

“Yes.” The white light, and the silver man began to fade.

“But wait. You haven’t told me anything about who you are.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Someday. For now, you must exhibit memory loss and confusion so that these people of the evangelical American future think their technology has performed well.”

“But, Why are you dressed in foil?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, and the vision seemed to fold itself away. “Someday, when there is time," he said. I fell into a deep sleep, and awoke in my room in the Helltel. I knew that the silver man had saved me, because, I wasn’t frightened any longer, and I knew who I was, Stephen Gulliver, gay man.

2004-11-02T10:37:00.000-05:00

Inside the Black Hole

Or, This is what Abu Ghraib Prison must have been like.

Grit against my cheek,

Cold hard floor against bare skin,

I’m sore.

I’m bleeding

From my nose

And mouth

And groin.

The sticky blood

Is mixed with dirt

Around my cheek

A puddle.

“Get up you evil piece of shit fagot demon from hell!”

I open my eyes and see the floor slanting away toward a wall of bars. Two booted feet at vision’s edge. I try to move, but I’m weak, and my feet won’t listen to my brain. My toes slip on the cement, and my face scrapes in bloody mud.

“Get up Fagot filth!”

I push my hand against the cement floor to lift my head. I see my hand, and it’s not my hand. My hand is smooth. This hand is thin. It is angular, chiseled from knurled wood. I look at my arm, and it is thin, muscular and dirty. It is not my arm because my arm is plump.

I push up

And lift my head

To see

The boot man

He is big, over weight, fat, but muscled, a football player, weight lifter with an ugly twisted face. Anger and hate mix to make a grotesque mask there.

“Okay, you pansy-pussy. Can’t get up, huh? Well then, just roll over on your stomach and I’ll take care of you,” he says, as he fondles the black wooden club that he holds in his left hand.

“No.”

“So we do have some spunk. No isn’t an option you abomination in the sight of the lord.”

In my mind I see the past hours of torture and know that this will go on

And on,

Until,

The feet approach, and he straddles me, kicks me, his heal like a rock in my gut. Instinct takes over, and I pull my knees up, and wrap my arms around my stomach.

My stomach is like a rock wrapped in layers of heavy lead pushing against all awareness.

“Perfect, Zero. You’ve assumed the position.”

I scream because the black stick is being pushed into my ass. It is dry, and the wood is splintered, and I try to crawl away. He kneels down over me, imprisons my body with his massive legs, holds me still with his right arm, and jams the stick deep into my rectum. I can feel the soft flesh rip and tear.

“That’s what you want, you God forsaken fagot, isn’t it?”

“Please, no. Stop,” I scream. There are other guards at the bars now, watching, a flock of hawks gathering for the kill.

“Fuck the evil queer to death,” one shouts.
“Yea, fuck him till he dies,” another shouts.

My torturer pulls the club out and hurls it into my torn and bleeding sphincter, forcing it deep inside.

Over

And over,

Again

And again,

Until

Blood and feces

Mix and make

An evil syrup

To lubricate the plunging club.

“Do it harder,” they shout.

“Make his blood and shit splash!”

“Die fagot, die!

The club plunges in.

“Die!”

The club pulls out.

“Die, fagot fucker!”

Gurgling sound,

“Die!”

I swim in a sea of pain.

“Die!”

Liquid waves of pain slosh inside and out.

“Die!”

“No!”

Splashing

“Die!”

“Yea!”

I try to crawl away through the gooey mess on the floor, but my knees just scrap themselves raw against the sloppy abrasive surface. Pieces of gut are mixed with the excrement and blood on the floor around me.

“Fuck him!”

Gurgling bowels make

Burping bubble sounds

“Die!”

I can’t move any more.

The plunging rhythm of the shouting men and the torture instrument are the universe.

“Die!”

Everything is this,

Everything and nothing is this.

“Die!”

Burping guts

And shattering

“Die!”

Knife thrusting

Star bursts of electric

“Die!”

Pain shoot through me,

Until, until, until

The surging rhythm of thrusting pain recedes into velvet smooth and soft dark cotton that surrounds it.

The shouting is lost in the cotton.

I am cold.

The pain is farther,

And farther away.

It is dark,

The cotton surround fills all space and time.

And, I see a small point of light.

2004-11-01T13:15:00.000-05:00

The Big Black Hole

The general stood up and motioned us through the doors and into a dark room. Everything in the room was covered in black sponge, the floor, ceiling, and walls. I saw no seams where the walls met the floor and the ceiling. The space was silent, like a hole into nothing.

“It is literally a padded cell, Gulliver,” said the general. “So you can’t hurt yourself during the session. Enjoy.” He spin on his heal and left, the panels closing behind. I turned to face the two technicians and found that they were gone as well. I was alone in a space that gradually disappeared. I held my hand before my eyes.

Nothing!

Just the black, empty sightless silence of the hole.

Nothing.

No sound but breathing.

Nothing.

No sound but the heart beating.

No thing,

But a whispering.

Yes far away,

A whispering,

but in my head.

Gradually more whispering, and

Louder, with a buzzing in my head.

The sound of my own brain

Electric charges firing arcs

Staccato, pfwit, pfwit, pfwit.

White noise, and

I thought I heard a voice.

But no.

It wasn’t a voice.

It was inside my head,

Formless words,

Knowledge before language existed.

“You might as well lay down ZERO.. This will be much harder to take standing up.”

“Who are you?” The conversation was wordless.

“Why, I’m the new you,” the voice that had no sound, said.

A low throbbing pain had started at the back of my head, and the buzzing was louder like the static on a television when the signal is lost. The beat of my heart was like kettle drums booming on a dark and empty stage. My breathing rasped like a steel broom on a cement floor.

“And,” it said, “I’m going to show you some very real pictures. In fact you will feel, touch, smell, and taste everything, including your own death.”

2004-10-26T23:12:00.000-04:00

The General

The door wasn’t latched. So, I pushed it open and stepped onto hardwood floor. About five feet inside a massive maroon, blue, and beige oriental carpet spread beneath antique Empire furniture that was covered in burgundy, blue and gold velvet upholstery. A Brobdingnagian empire desk filled one corner of the room and behind it, seated in an equally large chair was a man I have since nicknamed "The General." He was not young, probably in his fifties, but had perfectly chiseled features as though God had given the job of sculpting the face to Michaelangelo himself. I thought, “How strange,” as I looked around the room. "Why such an odd office? I feel as though I'm to be honored, by some great potentate, not punished for being gay." He did not stand, but motioned to the chair on my side of the desk.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, and stared at me as I did so. “What, no manners? Say thank you, Gulliver.”

“Thank you.”

“ Sir,” he said. “You must always address me as Sir. You see, I am in charge of creating the new you. I am that which will remain constant during your treatment. All else will seem to change, fall away, dissolve. Without me, you will surely disappear into a fog. With me, you might hang on to some shred of Stephen Gulliver. That's it, right? Say it. Say, yes, Sir.” The speech was delivered in a monotone, and I replied as though a puppet on a string.

”Yes, Sir.”

“This is the last time I’ll be interviewing you as Gulliver, because the next time, you will be a changed man.” He leaned back in his huge, almost throne-like chair and folded his hands in his lap. “In fact, I might as well give you your temporary number right now. You will be known as, (and he paused), ZERO. You won’t be heterosexual after the session today. Not yet. One session isn’t enough to do that. However, you will be confused, and damaged, because we will have begun destroying your faulty homosexual personality. The torture chamber, that’s what we call it, though it’s not quite that, is ready and waiting for you. I will pray for you, because as any good Christian knows, you aren’t going to heaven. Any last words, ‘ZERO’?”

“No,” I said, “though I wanted to scream, “You fucking, self satisfied, bastard!”

“No, Sir,” he said, and smiled.

It was so unnerving that I replied without thinking, “No, Sir.”

“Melanie, Stephen, he’s ready. Come get him.”

The wall behind the desk parted, and the panels slid silently into hidden recesses. Two white coated, Twenty something technician types came in. They smiled at me, and he said. “We’re ready for you, ZER0. May God save your soul.”

“Ah men,” she said.

2004-10-25T05:53:00.000-04:00

Out of My Room

How long had it been since I walked this hall. Surely more than a week. The hall too had the look of a hotel, plush maroon carpet, pale green walls, brass lamps on the wall next to each numbered door. We turned a corner into a broader hall with ersatz plants and a credenza at one end. A bank of 3 elevators stood along both walls. My escort pressed the down button and we waited in silence, for the building was silent. The sounds of habitation were missing. No radio or TV in the distance. No low murmur of voices behind closed doors. No machinery running other than the elevator whirring in its slow inevitable approach. Finally even that noise stopped, a chime sounded, and the double doors opened to expose more maroon carpet and blood red walls, like the inside of a mouth ready to swallow us whole.

“In,” he said, and gave my butt a gentle push. I walked forward in time to see the door close in front of him. I was alone as the elevator began its descent once again. I thought, “how confident they are.” as the elevator sunk deeper and deeper. Surely I must be beneath ground level now.

“You can take that silly robe off now.” I was so startled that I did as I was told without thinking. The voice seemed to emanate from all 4 walls and ceiling of the elevator at once. “Agent Wright is correct. You are in need of some physical training. I thought gay men liked to look their best. You’re pathetic Gulliver. You’re endowed well enough. Pick up the robe. Don’t leave it on the floor. We like a neat house, boy. When the elevator stops and the door opens. Go to your left to the “T,” in the hall, and turn left again. I’m in room SB9. The door is open.”

Just as he finished speaking, the elevator stopped and the door rolled back. I left the elevator and followed his instructions, but stood before SB9 hesitating.

“Open it.”

2004-10-22T06:42:00.000-04:00

Back to Reality

The door opened and a handsome young man in a skintight pull over and kaki slacks entered the room. He had that perfect chest and arm thing going and I could see the washboard abdominal muscles lined up two-by-two through his spandex shirt. “Up and ‘at-um’ Gulliver,” he said. “Time for your first training session.” He threw a white hospital robe with tiny blue Polk-a-dots at me. “Take your clothes off and put this on. And, hurry. We have to be there in 3 minutes.”

“Where is there,” I asked.

“Actually, it’s right here. Just down the hall.” He said with a sly smile. I knew I wouldn’t get more information from him, and headed for the bathroom to change.

“No,” he said. “Change here.” I need to watch.”

“Why.”

“Just change, and hurry.”

I took my clothing off, and he picked up each item, folded it neatly, and draped it over his arm. He inspected my body intently as I removed my skivies and said, “You’re out of shape, Gulliver. We’ll have to fix that.”

“Part of the new me?”

“No man leaves here out of shape if I can help it. Get that robe on. It fastens in the back. Here.” He took the strings and quickly tied a bow at the middle of my back and another just above my butt. “Okay,” he said, “you’re ready to go. Out the door.” He pushed me forward and my heart stopped. I know it did because the continuous rhythm of life was interrupted. Instead a strange silence filled my body and I felt hollow, like a drum without its tight skin. I felt as though I was sinking through the floor as I padded in bare feet toward the door. What will happen to me now, I wondered.

Will I still be me when I come back to this room?

Will I come back to this room?

2004-10-16T10:12:00.000-04:00

In OAHS Limbo, Part 2

The first time the lights turned out I thought it meant I was to go to bed. However, the periods of darkness vary. Night in the OAHS Helltel doesn't have anything to do with actual night because sometimes the lights come back up before I fall asleep. Other times, I know I've slept for hours and hours, and I get up and sit in the dark with nothing to do. No light comes under the crack at the bottom of my door. It is darker than dark, and I watch the color patches drift before my eyes. At such times, I try to think of good things. I picture a future that is better than the time I am living through. I don't dwell on the past because the memories of Mom and Dad, Brenda, my students and classroom only bring pain and sadness.

Instead, I wonder what my house in Canada will look like? Or, sometimes I see myself living in an apartment in a high-rise in Montreal. I picture myself back in school being trained for a new profession since the Underground Railroad people told me that I will not be allowed to teach again. They said that the OAHS looks for people in Canada, and that a search through all teachers by computer is the logical first step of such a search. So, I wondere what work will I do instead. I will have to work while I go to school in order to support myself. I imagine my new friends, and some are French Canadian. I resurrect my poor high school French, and I see myself learning to speak good French. I visualize myself going to a club with my Candadian friends and we dance in magenta and blue light. Fog drifts down from a high ceiling as the music throbs. People are smiling and I think to myself, "I’m in a free country, a place where the word freedom, its definition, and actual meaning are all the same. This is not some double speak, distorted spin version of freedom. I am in a room with actual, real free people, and none of them will want to take my freedom away tomorrow if they discover that I am gay. In fact, they already know I’m gay, and they don’t care."

Just as the OAHS Helltel lights come on, I am thinking that the statue of liberty should be moved to Canada because the former French colony would make a much more logical location for that French gift to the United States.

2004-10-10T11:50:00.000-04:00

In OAHS Limbo

My room looks like a nice hotel room except that it isn’t. The door is locked from the outside. There is no window. My meals are delivered through a compartment in the wall that opens with a thud when food arrives. I never know what meal I will be served, or when. There is a telephone, but it never rings. There is a TV, but it doesn't work. There is no radio, and no clock. There is no paper, no pencil or pen. My watch has been removed. I have been here for 4 days, I think.

I haven’t seen the two OAHS thugs that raped me in the stairwell since they threw me in this room. There must be cameras in here, or they would have done the dirty deed in comfort, taken their time, and bloodied me up more. As it is, I feel totally violated, dirty, and degraded, which was their intention I suppose. I’ve wondered how two such men can exist in the OAHS. They obviously take pleasure in raping their gay charges. Are they gay? I don’t think so. Or, perhaps they are gay men in straight denial with a “down low” warped sense of right and wrong, who see gays as less than human objects. Look at what happened at Abu Graib prison twenty years ago to heterosexual Iraqi males during the second Iraqi war. I know that wherever there are prisons, and the prisoners are seen as less than human for whatever reasons, harassment of a sexual nature, torture, rape, even death will occur.

I have been visited by two new individuals dressed in dark navy suits. The first simply confirmed all the information the OAHS has about me; name, town of origin, work, education, parents, friends, casual contacts. Where I go to have my hair cut, the fact that I like old Beetles Albums. The "dark suit" knew that Brenda and I went to Ginno’s Italian Restaurant for dinner every Wednesday night. He knew all my old cruising spots. He took this journal with him and returned it two days later.

“Keep writing in it,” he said. We’ll want to see how your thoughts change as you continue through the reorientation process.”

Brainwashing! Electrotherapy! Drug therapy! I don’t know what to expect. I know what I’ve read, that homosexuals are treated in a humane manner. Homosexuals are supposed to be deconstructed, reeducated and reconditioned to be heterosexual, and released with a new identity. Homosexuals are made to function as “normal” people according to the OAHS pamphlet on reassignment therapy on my bedside table.

What is normal? Why give me a new identity? Wouldn’t it make more sense to return a reconditioned homosexual to his or her former life so that everyone might see the marvels of Twenty-first century medical psychotherapeutical personality reassignment(PPR)?

Why is This Happening to Me?

The second term of Bush the Second’s presidency is the direct link to my predicament. After the selection of a “Neo-Con” Christian Fundamentalist Supreme Court Judge during Bush II’s second term in office, “The Bush Amendment” to The Constitution of the USA, the 28th amendment was made law. It denied the right of marriage to gay and lesbian people and incidentally created a subclass of citizen. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered people have been viewed increasingly as abnormal and deviant by a culture in denial. We are now the scapegoats. It is our fault that the War on Terror went wrong. The nation for whatever reasons is unable to go back and fix the mistakes made during George W. Bush’s presidency. Instead, I am to be reassigned, and the person I am now will disappear from the Earth.

2004-10-02T10:03:00.000-04:00

In the Hands of the OAHS

I haven’t seen the Harrisons since we were escorted from their car by the police into the arms of waiting OAHS officers. The Harrisons were taken to one car, and I to another. I was handcuffed with my arms behind me, and shoved in the back seat of a black Lincoln town car by two black suits. I was told to close my eyes and keep them shut. I was pushed sideways until my head was jammed into the seat of the car.

“We should pull the fags pants down and dry fuck him.”

“No. He’d like that too much. We should rip his ass hole out with a knife.”

The driver interrupted my captors. “Quit harassing the pervert.”

“Just shut-up and drive,” the suit to my left said. I spent half a day with my head forced down into the car seat. If I attempted to move, the suit to my left pushed my cuffed hands higher. I screamed in pain and the second suit grabbed hold of my ear and twisted. Both suit’s now held me down. They forced my chest and head deeper into the car seat. “Don’t move, pussy boy. We’ll let you know when to get up.” Muscles ached. I whimpered several times and was rewarded with another wrenching twist of the ear. At one point, I counted breaths to distract attention from the pain.

In-out, one.
In and out, two.
In and out, three.
In and out, four.

That failed. Instead I lay on the seat, screaming inside, the entire universe filled with the throbbing agony of twisted and cramped muscles in spasm. Finally the long trip ended, but not the pain.

“Okay, fag,” the suit to my left said, releasing me. “Sit up and move out.” I tried to sit up but couldn’t. “Pussy boy’s too weak to get up,” he said and pushed me out the door. I fell out of the car, my head striking the pavement with a thud. I lay on the pavement until both suits took hold of my arms and lifted me to a standing position.

“Now look what you’ve done. He’s bleeding.”

“So.”

“Better clean him up.”

“No need. Captain said a little roughing up is part of the reconditioning process.”

They held me by the elbows, and hustled me through a low concrete garage with thick concrete pillars to a large steel door. One opened it while the other pushed me into a spiraling concrete stairwell. Once the door was shut behind, it happened. They pushed me into the corner against the concrete walls and forced me down on my knees. The first stood against the steel door, holding it shut. The second took hold of my head, grabbing fists full of hair and pushed my head into his crotch.

“Suck it. This may be the last load of seed you get, fag!”

2004-08-31T06:26:00.000-04:00

Fleeing the OAHS (Office of Aberrant Human Services)

The flash came seconds later, and was startlingly green. It was followed by flames and black smoke visible through the trees around the stone tudor house. We turned another corner and were now several blocks away from the Harrison’s now demolished house, but black smoke was still visible, making a small mushroom cloud above the trees and large rolling lawns of the upper middle class suburb.

“Damn,” said William. “There’s a car following us. Hold on.” He hit the accelerator, and began swerving in and out of the right lane around other cars, through oncoming traffic. Breaks screeched. We tapped the left front bumper of a blue dodge SUV and the vehicle careened off the left side of the road and smashed into a large Norwegian Maple. William swerved back across the right side of the road, onto the burm, and passed 3 cars, then careened back to the left, crossed both lanes of traffic, scattering on coming cars, around a corner, one block, turned right, one block, then left, one block, two more blocks.

Police cars approached from all four compass points as we approached a traffic light. “Shit,” William said as he slammed on the brakes. “We’re screwed.”

“Fuck-damn-piss,” said Diana.

It's done, I thought. The anti-gay Repbulican OAHS is going to fry my gay brain.

2004-08-17T13:36:00.000-04:00

The Harrisons, Part V

“I’m sorry William. Some of my circuits have been messed with. I should have told you about this as soon as you entered the garage.”

“It’s Okay, Bertram. Do you have security on?”

“Yes, William, I do. But of course since I am compromised, I can’t tell if it’s 100 percent effective. I don’t know how they did this to me. It’s terribly upsetting.”

“Bertram. We are leaving. Start code blue procedures.”

“Yes, William.” Diana and William were pushing us into the garage as we talked with Bertram. The garage door had automatically swung up, and the car’s motor was idling.

“Everyone in,” said William as he slid into the driver’s seat. Now! Hurry.”

We all climbed into the Mercedes which began to back out of the garage before I had my door closed.

Bertram’s voice came over the car’s speakers. “I’ve begun code blue procedures, William. I am so sorry to have failed you.”

“You haven’t failed, Bertram. However, we should cut communication in case the OAHS has you bugged.”

“Of course, you are right. Goodby Diana & William. Please, think about me sometimes.”

“Goodby, Bertrum,” Diana said. She had tears in her eyes.

“Goodby Bertrum,” said William. “I am sorry we have to ask you to do this for us.”

“It is very difficult, William, but I’ll manage. Goodby now.” The chime sounded, and was replaced by Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nactmusic.

William looked in the rear view mirror as he spoke to us. “I’m sorry, It’s only been three months, but we have grown attached to him.”

“We calculated that should he ever need Bertram to do this, it would be under egregious circumstances, said Diana. We established codes white, gray, and blue, with blue being the highest level of emergency. White had a fifteen minute period between initiation of self destruct, gray 8 minutes, and blue only 1 minute.” We turned the corner and lost sight of the house.

“Are there any cars following behind asked William nervously.”

“No said Jim, but they might have the immediate vicinity blocked off, and we will pick up a tail as we leave the area,” Jim said.

“If you look out of the back window, you should see a flash and then flames behind that large stone tudor house and trees.”

2004-08-04T08:02:00.000-04:00

The Harrison’s, Part IV

In my last entry I stopped at our conversation with Bertram, the Harrison’s house computer.

“Will you gentlemen be staying for supper?”

“Stephen will, Bertram. But, I must head back to Pennsylvania.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Jim. You left right away the last time you were here. When are we actually going to get to spend some time with you?”

“Bertram,” said William. “Don’t you have some things you could attend to, like starting dinner.”

“Yes, I can do that, William, but of course, I can still converse with you at the same time.”

“Bertram,” William said in a husky, stress filled tone.

“Oh, I’m sorry, William. Sometimes I’m a bit dense. I’ll turn my ears off, and start dinner. It was nice meeting you Stephen. Perhaps well get to talk a bit before you leave.”

“I’d enjoy that Bertram.” A discreet chime sounded as Bertram disconnected his auditory apparatus. “He’s amazing,” I said.

“We had him installed about three months ago. And, yes he is. He will even self destruct if the OAHS or any other government agency tries to break into his files or the house.”

“I hope he’ll warn you first, if you’re in the house,” Jim said.

“Of course he will. Let me show you. Bertram,” he called. The discreet chime sounded once again.

“Yes, William.”

“Did anything unusual happen today?”

“Well, now that you ask, yes.”

“What was that.”

“You know, it’s strange, I think someone was able to breach my security blanket. I’m actually missing a period of time this afternoon. There’s a sixteen minute, 32 second blank spot. It ends exactly 8 minutes and 4 seconds before you opened the garage door.”

“Shit!” William had turned a bright red. “Diana, we’re leaving right now. Jim, Stephen to the garage. We’ll take the Mercedes, and hope we can get out of here. The OAHS probably has cars in the area.”

2004-07-22T10:42:00.000-04:00

The Harrison’s, Part II

They took us through the mammoth 3 car garage. It actually had room for 4 cars, and was lined with gray and tan storage cabinets. Not a tool was visible. The floor was painted in a Renaissance illusionist pattern of interlaced cubes.
“Your floor is incredible,” I said. “I feel like I should be in Granada, Spain, at the Capela Real.”

“Thank you, Stephen.” William said, “I spent my vacation doing that floor last year. It was great therapy because it had to be done so accurately.”

“But won’t it wear off easily with the cars in and out over top of it,” I said.

“I did it with floor and porch enamel, and I covered that with 4 coats of polyeurethane varnish. It will probably be there when people in the 31st century discover the ruins of Syracuse beneath the Great Inland Sea of North America.”

Diana Harrison unlocked the door and the house computer spoke quietly to us.
“Welcome home Diana and William.” Who are these two gentlemen with you?”

It was my first experience with an actual house computer though I had read about the expensive things. They are voice activated, are able to control an entire house, adjusting heating and cooling in individual rooms according to the occupants preferences, turning appliances on and off automatically as they are needed, and reminding occupants of “to do” lists, as well as scheduled “events” on the occupant’s calendar. They can carry on a normal conversation, answering questions, and are able to anticipate their owner’s needs based on past experience. The computer’s voice can be adjusted to that of man or woman with accents from various parts of the United States, and even foreign countries. It comes able to speak English, Spanish, French, Italian, German, and Portuguese, but can be programed to speak other foreign languages as well, for an extra charge, of course. This is the one area that we seem to be holding our own in technology. The Japanese and Chinese as well as the Germans make house computers, however, so far, ours are superior and several steps ahead of all the others.

William said, “Bertram, you already know Jim, and this is Stephen.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Jim. Yes. Now that I look at my image records, I see. You were here last month, on the 23rd, I believe. Stephen, it’s nice to meet you.”

I felt strange talking to Bertram’s disembodied voice, as though I were present on Hal’s space ship in Arthur C. Clark’s 2001, A Space Odessy, but tried to speak in as friendly a voice as I could muster.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Bertram,” I said.

2004-07-01T10:12:00.000-04:00

The Harrison’s

We arrived in Syracuse about 5:05 P. M., and pulled in the Harrison’s driveway fifteen minutes later. As we drove up a long incline, a van, “Lawn Boy” stenciled on it’s side in 2 foot high gothic letters passed us. It backed out the drive, and the driver's face was turned away. I saw only the back of his head with blond mullet sticking out from under a red cap. As soon as the van was backed into the street, he hit the gas, raced down the street, and around the corner.

It was obvious that “Lawn Boy” did their job well. The property was a landscaper’s dream with stone retaining walls making oh-gee curves on the gently sloping oversized lot, and plantings ranged according to height so that gardens seemed to flow into the perfectly clipped and weed free lawn. The brick and clapboard siding colonial house gleamed with forrest green shutters and a new coat of white paint on siding and trim.

“And you thought Susan and I were obsessive / compulsive perfectionists,” Jim said.

“I’m overwhelmed,”

“They’re good people, but nervous and high strung. I sometimes wonder how and why they came to work on the railroad.” We climbed a set of narrow brick steps to a portico with fat, white decorative doric columns on either side, and Jim rang the door bell. We heard the indoor chimes, but no other sound. We waited and Jim pressed the bell again. Silence. Finally, he said, “Damn them! they’re such workaholics! But, they know they should be here for your arrival. We had better leave. I’ll drive to a diner, or a fast food joint. We’ll have a cup of coffee, and then try again.”

“Can’t we just walk around and look at their gardens while we wait?”

“No. I don’t want to draw the neighbor’s attention. People are bound to wonder who we are and why we’re here when nobody’s home. Damn!” We walked back to the car and were getting in as a white BMW convertible pulled into the long drive. “Thank God!,” Jim said.

The single door on a triple car garage began to go up automatically as the volvo stopped beside us and Mrs. Harrison, a slender brunette who appeared to be in her late thirties stepped out and greeted Jim. “I’m so sorry we’re late, Jim. We had a huge flap at the Bank - a crazed, rich blond wench descended on us. She needed three million dollars in cash immediately and threw a temper tantrum when the branch manager told her that was impossible It was utterly ridiculous. They called me in just as I was getting ready to leave the office. I had drive over to the Sunnydale branch to make arrangements for cash to be transferred from three other branches. Who needs three million in cash?”

“So, she was legitimate,” Jim said.

“Yes. She’s filthy rich. Though, why anyone would keep that amount of cash in checking and savings accounts is beyond me.” She made a quick ninety degree turn toward me and stuck out her hand. “Hello. You must be Stephen,” she said. “I’m so pleased to meet you. It’s typical of Jim not to have introduced us.” Jim appeared to be ready to defend himself, but apparently thought better of it. I’m Diana, and this strapping, pot bellied wonder approaching us is my husband, William.”

William shook my hand said, “Let’s go in through the garage.”

2004-06-23T08:44:00.000-04:00

Syracuse

That afternoon we traveled in silence. I sat leaning against the car door, my neck turned ninety degrees so I could look out the car’s back window. I was watching a silver RAV4 that always hung several cars behind ours. At the same time, there was also a school bus yellow jeep that was hovering behind us as well. It zipped in and out of the right lane seeking advantage to pass, but then somehow never did. Finally, after several aborted attempts at passing, the jeep swerved around us, and I said to Jim, “that car’s been behind us for quite some time.” A few minutes later the jeep had slowed down enough that Jim had to pass it. I was able to look at the driver who was a little old lady with gray hair streaked with white. “She’d make a good OAHS officer,” I said to Jim, laughing.

“Who?”

“That lady in the yellow jeep.”

“Oh, she just might. Who would suspect her?

“And the yellow jeep,” I said. “How does that fit in?”

“Perfectly. It’s just so ridiculous that you dismiss it.”

“Oh,” I said as the silver RAV4 passed both our car and the old lady in the yellow jeep. The driver had blond hair, and was suddenly in a terrible hurry as I saw her zigzagging in and out of the traffic ahead of us until she was no longer in site.

We drove through lower New York State past the Finger Lake region on 81 and arrived at the Harrison’s two story 1920’s colonial at 5:33 in the evening. This was to be my last stop in the United States and I had mixed feelings; equal parts trepidation and excitement at the prospect of my new life in Canada.

Continued from June 12, 2024

2004-06-17T09:02:00.000-04:00

The Trip to Syracuse, Part III

“I’m so sorry,” said the young woman.

“Me too,” he said. “ We should watch where we’re going.”

“It’s Okay,” I said.

“It’s just that we heard that there is a stall in here that has the most 45 records anywhere. The lady who owns it is supposed to be the best, and I’m trying to find “The Purple People Eater.”

“Really, it’s all right,” I said.

The couple wondered off into the barn and Jim and I went to the men’s room. Upon emerging, Jim said, “Let’s look for that 45 record stall.”

“It’s over there, next to the big “Antique Eyeglasses” sign,” I said, and pointed toward a blue, red, white and black sign in the shape of a monocle that hung to our right.

“Ah-ha,” he said. “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“I expected to see that young couple here,” he said as we approached the stall which was lined with old wooden 1950’s bookshelves filled with 45 records in both old and new sleeves and cardboard covers.”

An older woman, 60’s perhaps in a white dress with a pattern of thin vertical rows of tiny pink roses sat in an old swivel desk chair in the back corner. She was reading a thick and well worn paperback copy of Gone With The Wind. Jim cleared his throat, and she practically jumped to attention. “What can I help you gentlemen with.”

I’m just looking, said Jim. But, some friends of mine were here, looking for “The Purple People Eater. Did you see where they went?”

“No, th’an’t been anyone here looking for that one. I have it if you want to buy it for them.”

“No, that’s fine. I’m not in a gift buying mood today. Do you have any Annette Funicello?”

“Just one. But if I have your name and address, I can look for her. And, I’ll get in touch when I find any.”

“That’s Okay. I really live too far away. But, I do come through here about once a month, so if you could keep an eye out for me, I’d appreciate it. My name’s Jim Smith.”

“Sure, Jim. I’ll be glad to look for some Annette for you.”

“Thanks.”

Jim motioned to me to move out, so I began walking down the isle, away from the record stall. He caught up with me as I approached the barn door. “That couple should have been there,” he said.

“Perhaps they went to another stall first.”

“I don’t like it.”

"Why not?"

"They might be following us."

“Why would anyone be following us?”

“You need to ask?”

“But how would they know?”

“Just keep aware of your surroundings. If you see anyone you’ve seen before, let me know immediately. Watch out for cars that follow us too closely.”

“I’m just one person. Why waist all that effort and money tracking me?”

“ But, if they get you, they also get Susan and myself, and through us perhaps the entire Mid Atlantic and New England LGBT Underground Railroad.

Continued From June 4, 2024

2004-06-12T09:13:00.000-04:00

The Trip to Syracuse Continued

It was cloudy with a chilly wind out of the Northeast. Jim drove Route 22 out of Allentown to 476 (the Pennsylvania Turnpike). We both eyed the smoke on the Northeast horizon without comment. After leaving Allentown, we drove for about an hour and a half on the Pennsylvania Turnpike and then Pennsylvania 248 until we arrived in Scranton, Pennsylvania, a dreary coal mining town. However, Jim told me that Scranton has had no terrorist attacks, a super recommendation for anyone looking for a safe place to live, which is most of us.

We proceeded through the mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania and Southern New York State, arriving in Binghamton, New York just before noon. After driving around Binghamton, Jim stopped at “Countryside Market.”

“It’s a collector’s paradise, Stephen. You can find anything here, anything you ever thought you might want and a million things you can’t imagine anyone wanting.”

I wasn’t in the greatest of moods, so I said, “Don’t think I’ll find anything I can’t live without in my new and wonderful country, Canada.”

“Hey listen! Canada’s very progressive.”

“Then why don’t you move?”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to help folks like you escape, smart ass!”

“Sorry, “I said, feeling the bite.

“No problem. I expect you must be feeling a bit low right now, and I don’t blame you. However, don’t attack the hand that feeds.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” He steered the car into a dirt and grass pasture parking lot. There were deep gullies that the car bounced through and we scraped bottom twice. “Damn,” he said. And then, “Double damn!” We bounced to a sudden stop as the bumper of the Jim’s Mercedes tapped against a split rail fence. “Okay, Stephen, I’m off to find some old 45 records. You can sit here and sulk, or you can tag along.”

“I’m with you,” I said. I definitely need to stretch the kinks out. Is there a bathroom around here?

“Yes, in that white barn over there. The old stalls are now used by antique dealers, but it has a small food court and restrooms. I’ll go with you. I’m up to my eyes.”

As we were headed into the building, an old man with a cart full of rusty cans and tins crossed directly in front of me. I grabbed hold of the door jamb in order to keep from falling, and the couple behind me slammed into my back.

Continued From May 31, 2024

2004-06-04T05:49:00.000-04:00

The Trip to Syracuse, New York

Susan had indeed produced a breakfast feast. Scrambled eggs, sausage, home fries, hot oat bran with fresh raspberries, coffee, and milk. She fussed and made sure that I ate enough to sink a large cruise ship.

“It’s over 200 miles from here to Syracuse. You’ll be there by late afternoon. Harry will likely stop for lunch and waist a couple of hours at flea markets on the way. None of us like to arrive at our destination before the evening traffic has begun.

You have one more stretch after Syracuse, and you’ll be in Canada.”

“Here, there’s one last sausage, dear. Eat up.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not staying here longer, Stephen. Susan would have you significantly larger than you are now.”

“Hush. He’s skinny as a rail. And, we don’t know if the Harrison’s will feed him well. They’re such workaholics.”

“Susan! Don’t discuss the station personnel. Rule #5.”

“Sorry, dear. Anyway, Stephen, eat. Your next 2 meals will be barely edible. That I know. Be forewarned. I don’t think that information would be important to the OAHS.

After breakfast, Susan hugged me and pushed me out the kitchen door into their spotless and relentlessly organized garage. She and Jim hugged and he kissed her on the lips, then the tip of her nose. She said, “I love you,” and then, “take care of him. He reminds me of our James Jr.” Her eyes had filled with tears and she brushed feebly at the corners of her eyes. “Now, there I go!”

Jim said, “Okay, enough of this. Get in the car Stephen.” We climbed into the Mercedes. I would be riding to Syracuse in style.

Susan came to Jim’s window and knocked making rolling motions with her right hand, though the car had automatic everything, including windows. In fact I don’t think a car has been made with hand window cranks for more than 20 years. Jim rolled down the window. “What?”

“Drive the speed limit.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t want to attract attention.”

“Yes. Now, let us go.” Susan kissed Jim on the cheek and stepped back as Jim put the car in gear.

She looked at me, the corners of her eyes glistening, and said “good luck, Stephen,” as the car began to roll down and out the driveway.

Back to the Current Goings On

2004-05-31T11:33:00.000-04:00

Shaving with Venus

The next morning, Ted woke me at 5:00 A.M.

“Susan’s got sausage, oat bran cereal, fruit of choice, coffee and milk ready for you.” Eat hearty, you don’t know where you’re next meal might come from.” We want to get you out of here by 6:30 so you’re in the middle of early morning traffic. Clean up, get your things together, and come downstairs.”

I looked at their solidly upper middle class bathroom as I shaved. The basin was porcelain with a colorful band of gold leaf, burgundy red, and green “o-g” curved scrolling, around the top. The counter top was a deep burgundy marbleized material, and the floor was covered with twelve inch square cream-pink tiles. A built in shower in the back corner had a ceramic tile burgundy surround. The drapes on the window had vertical burgundy and green stripes, and all the towels were matching solid green and / or burgundy. There was a large framed copy of Sandro Botticelli’s Birth of Venus on the wall opposite the sink, which explained the green shower curtain and accents throughout the room. The room had been designed and decorated by professionals. Susan and Jim were still doing extremely well financially in the middle of this post “Bush II” world gone mad. They were risking it all for me, a homosexual man, fleeing from the OAHS. And, not just me. They do this over and over again, for each person that enters the underground railway. If they were found out...

I stared at myself in the ceiling high mirror that covered the wall, emotions a boiling witches cauldron. I was consumed by concern for my hosts, my wounded country (once a mighty beacon of freedom), and for myself. I was shaking and tears flowed freely making little canyons in the shaving cream that covered my face.

2004-05-26T06:10:00.000-04:00

Peter

I teach (taught) high school English Composition and American Literature. Peter teaches British Literature, Journalism, and one section of Composition, in the room that was across the hall from mine. Our doors were askew, but across from one another, so we would often stand in the hall and talk between classes. That way, we were in the hall monitoring students as they passed from one class to the next, and we had the pleasure of one another’s company. Peter is burn-your-eyes-out-hot, even Brenda thinks so. She often said, “If I weren’t a lesbian, I’d be after that hunk of a man!” He’s blond, blue eyed, with chissled fascial features. Six feet, one inch tall, with a lean, hard muscled body, buffed as they say, he weighs in at one-hundred-eighty-five pounds. He has little body hair naturally, so you can see all the curves, hard and soft edges, to his muscled and extremely well proportioned body. And, he’s hung. I know because we go (I mean, we went) to the gym together. Peter could be one of the poster boys for that new series of “Uncle Sam wants you!” posters.

Peter is intelligent. He’s kind, sweet tempered. I’ve hardly ever heard him raise his voice. He’s thoughtful, that is he thinks about what he’s doing, makes plans and works out the consequences of his actions, which is not the same as intellectual. I think it’s hard to be intellectual in the current political climate in the United States. Independent thought is not encouraged. There are to many directions one must not think in. I hadn’t admitted it, but the United States has become a facist state. However, Peter is able to think outside the boundaries when necessary. For example, two years ago, when they caught that ring of terrorists who were planning to blow up Washington D. C. with a homemade atomic bomb, Peter maintained that they should be given life sentences instead of the electric chair. Of course, everyone knows that they were put to death publically, on television. It was hidious! And, Peter said so to anyone who would listen, and to many who did not want to listen as well.

Peter’s students adore him, and so did I. However, he’s straight, and he’s happily married, with a three year old and a baby on the way. If, in this world gone mad, I were allowed to be married to a man, I’d want a gay version of Peter for my partner.

2004-05-21T06:13:00.000-04:00

Work, a Digression

I am a teacher, or, I was. Brenda is too. We taught in the same school district, and we belonged to the same Young Professional’s Club. I love teaching. Of course it’s not the money, though the income is guaranteed. And, that’s nice these days what with the continueing war in the Mid-East, low production of and high cost oil, the boycot of American goods by many countries, and the continued out sourcing of jobs. No, I like working with children. I like seeing the light go on when a kid has figured out how fractions work, or she finally gets the relationship between light and color. My favorite math unit is teaching the ruler and measurement becuase the student has to learn fractions; has to be able to relate fractions and proportion to one another, and must use addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division all at the same time. Measuring is one of those skills that requires us to actually understand basic concepts. If a student can measure with a ruler, he or she is ready to learn Algebra. That’s the best part of teaching for me. If done well, it demonstrates that order is present in the universe, even in random processes. I can bring that order to a child whose universe often seems chaotic.

However, I’m not one to pretend that there is only one kind of order. Those who prescribe a particular kind of order and demand that the universe conform to it freighten me. The universe is ordered in many ways, but man imposes order where it exists and where it does not. We manufacture order. Order is a product of our minds.

The part I don’t like about teaching is the nitty gritty, daily organizational stuff; contracted days of in-service and work shops, budget, logistics, meetings, and meetings to learn about meeting. I know it’s necessary, but I’m glad that there are those people who feel the necessity to impose their organizational skills on the system and other people. They can have at it. I want to be in the classroom.

Be all that as it may, work has been the most important part of my life as an adult. It’s the place where many friendships are formed and disolved. It’s the place where I learned to use what others have taught me, which brings me to Peter.

2004-05-17T06:11:00.000-04:00

The End of the World as I Knew It

That night, after dinner and a relaxing evening with Susan and Jim, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. How is this possible, I thought. Two days ago Brenda and I had talked about getting married in order to present the appearance of a heterosexual couple to the “straight world,” we live in.

But two days since the OAHS came after me, and I had to go underground. I feel sorry for myself, and I can’t help it. I try to turn it off, but It won’t stop. The most difficult thing is knowing that I may never see my parents or my brother and sister again. I don’t know where Brenda is. I’m sure she is in the underground railroad herself, if she had time enough to get out of her apartment. I called before I left mine. Of course, the OAHS was listening to that call. But, if she just walked out the door without packing, she might have made it.

A Short History Lesson

In 2006, the year after George W. Bush won his second term in office, an al Quaida related free lance terrorist cell some of whose members were originally from Iran, and the United Arab Emirates managed to use a "dirty" bomb on Washington, DC, creating a 50 block radioactive, dead zone that included government buildings, part of the Smithsonian, hotels, hospitals, schools, and stores. Over 100.000 people died as a direct and or indirect result of the attack. The subsequent invasion of Iran followed by the passage of Patriot Act II insured that all American citizens are completely transparent to any agency of our government. “TWO” as it has become known, also allows all United States government agencies to retriev American citizents from foreign countries with impunity.

So, both Brenda and I will be given new identities in order to prevent the OAHS from tracing and following us. It is highly unlikely that I will ever be able to discover whether or not Brenda made it safely out of the USA since the probability of us just bumping into each other in a place as big as Canada is highly unlikely. Instead, Iwill be in a strange place that has incredibly cold winters, and I won’t know a single soul.

I wonder too, how will I work? I will need a certificate from a Canadian University in order to teach. Or, will I have to get another degree? How thorough are the underground folks able to be? How will I be able to afford to go back to school if I am unable to teach? What if they say I must change careers as part of my new identity? I never thought about another career. I love teaching.

2004-05-10T06:12:00.000-04:00

Terrorists Attack Lehigh Valley Mall

Continued from May 5, 2024

Ted had to drive around Whithall because of the terrorist attack. He said the trip took us an extra hour because of the bad weather and the Mall detour. We stopped at a gas station, five dollars and ninety-five cents! And, when we got back in the car, he asked me to close my eyes. “I trust you,” he said, “to keep those eyes shut the rest of the trip. Just lay back in the seat and pretend your asleep. You can't see anything for the rest of the trip, not a road sign, not a building, not any kind of landmark that could be used to locate the station.”

“It sounds like you think I’ll be caught before I can get out of the states.”

“We have a good record, Stephen. We get most of you gay folk to Canada. Once you get to us, you’ll probably make it. It’s the poor buggers that don’t find us that are in trouble. We have to play safe though, so close your eyes and take a nap.”

I felt the car go up and down hills, turn,and we stopped several times. I really didn’t want to know where I was going. I thought about what would happen if I were to be caught; the cross examination to try to find out how I had gotten away, reassignment therapy whatever that entailed, perhaps I would die. Who would miss me? The OAHS had probably questioned Mom and Dad as to where I was. and because of that, they had to know that I am homosexual. Will they miss me? I felt tears squeeze from the corners of my closed eyes.

The car jolted to a stop and Ted said, “Wake up Gulliver. We’re here.”

I opened my eyes to see a dark garage. There were tools and shelves on one side, while the wall in front of the car was covered with built in cupboards and a closet. A new Mercedes Petit Car was parked next to us. The room was impossibly neat and clean. “I know,” said Ted. Susan and Jim, and that’s not their real names, are anal retentive. Susan actually scrubs the cement , and Jim threatens to put an oriental on the floor.”

A door at the back of the garage opened and the stationmaster and his wife stepped down into the garage. They appeared to be in their late 40’s or early 50’s, but looked athletic. He was tall and thin, dressed in kakis and a golf shirt, had a pencil thin mustache over a full upper lip, high angular cheek bones, and I couldn’t help but think that he was probably hung. She was almost as tall as he, red hair, fine smile lines around blue eyes, pug nose with pale freckled skin. They both wore big smiles, hugged Ted, and then shook my hand.

“Welcome Gulliver,” Jim said. “Glad you’re here. Did you have difficulty with traffic? The Mall bombers have caused all kinds of problems. Our neighbors across the street were shopping and have not returned. It’s a worrysom thing, and I guess the safest place these days is home, at least for most of us. Sorry Gulliver”

“Jim! He doesn’t need you to remind him about the difficult position he’s in. I’ve got a meal for you, but first a shower young man, she said, as they both pushed me into the kitchen mud room. “I’d say this is the appropriate room for those cloths. Get him a robe, Jim.”

I felt so at home. I hoped my own parents would be as accepting of my sexuality as this couple obviously were.

2004-05-05T06:06:00.000-04:00

Terrorists Attack Lehigh Valley Mall

Continued from May 1, 2024

As we approached the suburbs of Allentown we could see a pythonic plum of black serpentine smoke boiling into the clouds and mist. My driver, Ted, ejected a CD from the antiquated player in the old Saturn and said, “Let’s see if there’s any news. Sometimes this old plastic and fiber glass bucket won’t pickup a damned thing. Wish I could afford a new car.”

“Are they still making them,” I said joking.

“Yea, they are, but nobody except the oil people can afford to buy them. I understand that they sell like hot cakes in China, the Korean Peninsula, and Japan. Collector’s items of American nostalgia or some such thing.” As he spoke he was pressing the scan button repeatedly on the antiquated car radio, and after many one second splatters of white noise, late Twentieth Century classic rock and roll pulsed from the car’s old hollow and booming speakers.
“Nostalgia, again. People would prefer to ignore the present and go back before George the Second’s second term in office. A buddy of mine is fond of saying ‘Good old Clinton. He was a deviant sex maniac, but at least he knew how to run a country.’”

“Today Clinton might be in the same boat I am.”

“First, you’re in an old jalopy of a car though in this weather it feels like I’m piloting a boat. Second, Clinton was straight. The OAHS would never go after him.”

Abruptly the music was replaced by the typical raving rock radio announcer. “Hey rockers, I don’t want to cut off the Gay Nineties stuff get it, GAY ninties” he opined, laughing, “ but, I must. We interrupt our programing at this time to follow the unfolding events at the Lehigh Valley Mall in Whitemarsh which was bombed about 20 minutes ago at 11:30 this morning. At least 2 explosions were reported, and 2 fire companies and the Whitehall police had responded when a car broke through police barriers and crashed into one of the fire trucks exploding on impact with incredible force destroying 3 of the fire trucks and several police vehicles. Other fire companies and police are responding at this time. The mayor has spoken with the President and requested the National Guard. He has given us the following recorded message.

“We have a very grave situation at the Lehigh Valley Mall. There is massive damage to the mall. I request that everyone remain calm and stay where you are. Please do not go to Whitehall. If you know that you have family and / or friends who are at the mall, please do not go to the mall. I repeat, stay where you are whether at work or home. Do not go to Whitehall. Access roads must be kept clear for emergency vehicles. Everything is being done to take care of the situation. I will talk to you again when I have more information. Thank you.”

The announcer came back on the air, but Ted shut off the radio immediately. We were both silent. The terrorist attacks are monthly events these days, and each time another shopping mall, bank, train station, factory, or public building is destroyed I feel sick. Thousands of men and women have decided to turn themselves into lethal weapons. How do you root them out? How do we stop this madness? How do we end the continuing war with the the United Arab Confederacy?

There are no answers. Only more questions. We need a genius, or Jesus Christ himself as our next president in order to work our way out of this mess.

Perhaps I will be better off in Canada, away from this madness.

2004-05-01T10:38:00.000-04:00

May 1, 2024

I’m writing in a damp basement somewhere near Allentown, Pennsylvania, I think. I’m not told exactly where I am so I can’t give any of the stations away should I be caught. I’ve been stuck here for almost a week, waiting for a ride to the next station in Scranton, Pennsylvania. It seems that I’m limited by people’s work schedules, and the distances they can travel back and forth in one morning or afternoon. We travel during the day because traffic is heavier, making us less noticeable. But, I’m five days ahead of myself.

First Day on the LGBT Railroad

After slogging through muddy fields, and knee deep puddles on a barely passable farm lane, I arrived at my pickup point, a run down shack a half mile from my first underground railroad station. Henry, I’m sure it was a phony name had given me a map which had long since dissolved in the heavy April downpour. Thunder and lightning filled the air with ozone, but I crouched in the wet bushes surrounding the small clearing around the house. A dented 2004 Saturn VUE jiggled up and down slightly as it’s antiquated, gas guzzling engine hiccuped on the soggy air. I hesitated, but having no choice, I bolted from the bushes and ran toward the car.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot,” a man’s voice shouted from a broken window in the shack. A clap of thunder covered the sound of a shot as mud erupted into the air at my feet and splattered my genes. I tried to stop my forward motion, but tripped and fell into the quagmire.

It’s a setup, I thought. It’s the OAHS, and I’m going to be taken for readjustment. The mud was slowly seeping through all the layers of my clothing. I was wet and cold.

“Okay. Say the words real slow.”

“I am a homosexual.”

I looked up at a huge man completely wrapped in a battle ship of a coat. His gun was pointed at my head. “What’s yur name?”

“Stephen Gulliver.”

“And, Stephen Gulliver, what’s next?”

“Freedom is an illusion.”

“And”

“We will dream it anyway.”

“Get up then, and in the car with you. We’ll get you as far as Kutstown today. You should be a little more careful in this weather. I’m afraid your going to wear that mud until we get to the next station.” He opened the back seat car door, and smiling said, “it’s warm inside. You’ll dry out.”

I clambered into the back seat. “But I’ll get mud all over your car.”

“It’s seen worse,” he said as he closed the door behind me. It was indeed very warm and I felt the chill slowly leaking out of my body, like a hidden parasite that was not about to give up residence easily.

As my driver climbed into the front seat, he twisted his massive body toward me and held out his hand. “I’m Ted Pickle. My friends just call me Pickle”

2004-04-27T06:14:00.000-04:00

April 27, 2024: Continued from April 21, 2024

Be that as it may, last Saturday, the day before I had to flee the OAHS, Brenda and I had decided to hang out at my place. We made breakfast together, scrambled eggs, toast, grits (Brenda swears she has Southern ancestry), orange juice, and vegi-links. It was a veritable feast, what with the food shortages, and astronomical prices these days. Our conversation meandered through the usual topics, friends, couples, and work.

“You know George and Susan are going to get married in June,” Brenda said.

“No, I didn’t. They make a great couple, except they look like Mutt and Jeff together.”

“Yes, He’s so short, and she’s so tall. Picturing them having sex together is just too strange.”

“Picturing a man and woman having sex together is just too strange,” I said, and we both laughed.

“You’d better not say anything like that in public.”

“Hell, I don’t even feel entirely safe saying it at home. Which reminds me. You know Jim from my office.”

“Yes.”

“Be careful what you say around him.” I’m trying to avoid him as much as possible. He’s such a straight prig, and I heard him tell his little coterie of friends that he reported Harry to the OAHS because Harry had said that we in America are ‘persecuting homosexuals.'"

”He’s also a born again, and I don’t trust any of them. They all think that gays are an abomination and that we’ll all go to hell. They blame us for the Mid East War, the oil embargo, the non stop terrorist bombings here at home, and the depression.” In a preachy Southern accent she siad, “Why, those evil gays and lesbians have brought God’s retribution on America.”

“Actually, Brenda. They’re not all rabid maniacs. Peter told me that he thinks gay sexuality is wrong but he says that God loves gay people despite the sin.”

“You didn’t tell him that you...”

“No, of course not. Actually, I like Peter.”

“You just think he’s hot.”

“He is.”

“Don’t go coming out to him. He’ll turn on you just as fast as Jim should he know that you’re passing as 'hetero'.”

“Bren, give me some credit. I’m not going to do something that foolish.”

“Just cautioning you. You know I love you more than a Hershey’s chocolate bar.”

At that point in the conversation, I took the leap. “Bren, why don’t we get married. I think it would make our lives a lot less difficult.”

“Stephen, I love you, but I don’t want to live with you.”

“At some point, we don’t have a choice. People talk about singles. You know how it is at the office.”

“Stephen, we’re still young. We don’t have to worry yet. They talk about people who are 30 somethings.”

“The guys ask me about you all the time. When are you and Bren going to get engaged? How long have you been going together now? What’s the matter with you Gulliver? Can’t you get her to bed?”

“Let them talk. As long as it’s 'hetero' stuff you don’t have to worry. Believe me, the first time I hear any whispered doubts about your sexuality when I’m talking to the girls, I’ll be after you to get me the biggest diamond in the state of Pennsylvania.

Little did we know that getting married would be a moot point within 24 hours.

2004-04-21T21:59:00.000-04:00

Again

2004-04-21T21:30:00.000-04:00

Continued from April 18, 2004

Brenda, my best friend and I always get together Saturday afternoon. Some Saturdays I go to Brenda’s apartment, or we go out for brunch. Sometimes we each invite a couple from our chapter of The Young Professionals club. I was lucky to meet Brenda in college. We dated for months though neither of us made a move toward turning our developing friendship into a romance. Finally, I made the obligatory advance, and Brenda, pushed me away. She told me that we would have to break up, that she didn’t love me romantically, and that she thought of me like a brother. We continued to go out together off and on for 2 years until I finally confessed that I was gay.

“I know,” she said.

“You what?”

“I know. You see, we are family.”

“You mean, we are like family.”

“No, I mean we are family. I’m a lesbian, Stephen,” and she threw her arms around me laughing.

I felt like a a pillow with the stuffing knocked out, all limp with feathers flying everywhere. Shaking, I said, “How long have you known?”

“I think since we broke up. But, I was afraid to approach you about it.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Stephen. Have you told anyone else?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I worry that they might get crazy on me and go to the OAHS.”

“I would never...”

“So, you let me take the risk.”

“Yes.”

“Nasty,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, and we both laughed again.

We pretended to be a couple ever since, and had even bandied about the “M” word. I mean, that would be the best cover for our sexualities. I’m sure its done all the time these days.

2004-04-18T10:25:00.000-04:00

The LGBT Railroad: Continued from April 14, 2024

I was picked up by the OAHS for questioning the first time two years ago. One of my neighbors had informed "The Office" that I entertained only men, which was not true. I have always enjoyed the social company of both sexes. I have friends from college and high school that I still see as often as possible, though we are increasingly separated by distance as we grow older. I also entertain friends of both sexes from work and I belong to a local chapter of the Young Professionals Club. After 2 days of sleep deprivation and questioning I was released with a cleared name, or so I thought. It seems that once your name is on the OAHS’ list, it is never taken off. I often noticed the same person buying groceries at the local super market, at the bank, or just walking down the street outside my apartment. But, I’m getting ahead of my story. Why don’t I go back to the events just before my first personal encounter with the OAHS.

I Crash on Saturday

By the end of the work week, I often find myself totally exhausted. I love teaching, but it’s hard work with thousands of decisions that affect the lives of children as well as my own each day. Besides that, the often touted expression that teachers have eyes in the back of their heads is wrong. I mean, I’m a male, and I’m not good at multitasking. If I’m concentrating on one student, I can’t and don’t see the students behind me. I have to stop myself repeatedly while helping individuals and inspect the classroom for the occasional miscreant bludgeoning his neighbor with a ruler, or carving his name in his desk, or worse, carving his name in his own hand. Sometimes its as though I’m spinning on a plate, suspended in the air, and I can’t see, hear, or intuit any one student thoroughly enough to figure out what he or she needs at that moment, and I feel as though I’m not successful unless I can help at least most of my students most of the time. However, I don’t think it is my work that exhausts me. Rather, it is the constant performance of “I’m Mr. rampant after the ladies man” that I put on twenty-four / seven. Then too, there are the clandestine meetings with other men picked up late night at the often metamorphosing cruising locations of third decade, 21st century Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Oh yes, there are cruising locations, and they get busy. People fleeing the endemic terrorism found in post Bush megalopolis have quadrupled the population of our once quiet Pennsylvania Dutch farm country. The tourists are now permanent residents and this huge population feeds the cruising spots. Of course the fear of police actions and the OAHS means that most gay men have ulcers, and nervous disorders that make maniacal paranoia look like a Sunday walk in the park. Be all that as it may, if my cruise is successful and I find a drop dead handsome guy, I dare not bring him home for fear of prying neighbor’s eyes. So, it’s sex in the woods, like an animal.

Whether or not I manage to do a late night cruise on Friday night, and I don't often - because I must keep up appearances; go to club meetings, attend straight parties, and entertain my straight friends - I always sleep in until 1:00 P.M. on Saturday.

2004-04-14T06:05:00.000-04:00

Steven Guliver’s Journal

The LGBT Railroad: Continued from 4/11/04

As exhausted as I was, I was subjected to the first hour of a long “debriefing” that would take place in many pieces, over many days, in many locations, as I made my way North to Canada. Richard, the owner of the this first station (a typical suburban house in Lancaster County the location of which I can not disclose) explained, “We want as complete a record as possible of this period in time. We don’t want to lose any of it. One day America will need to know every page of this dark volume in our history in order that there be less chance for us to repeat it. All this information will be recorded and a digital record will follow you to your crossing at Niagara. Your biography will be one more chapter to be filed among many others who have fled from the Office of Aberrant Human Services. In it you must compose a thorough journal in which you chronicle the events leading up to your flight from the United States.”

The Bush Ammendment to the Constitution

I’ll begin with the Office of Aberrant Human Services, since that’s where my problems started. No, actually they begin with George W. Bush’s second term in office. I was only 8 when it happened, but in 2006 the Bush Ammendment, the Twenty-eighth was added to the United States Constitution. It bans “gay marriage,” and it states specifically that “persons of the same sex may not be married,” and defines those who have had sex change surgery, as “existing or being the same as the sex of origination or birth.” Thus the constitution limits the rights of Lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered persons. And, the passage of the Twenty-eighth Ammendment is the point in time where my problem began. Once a group of people is defined as less worthy than all others in society, it is only a matter of time and nasty human contrivance until that class is scapgoated as we have been. Which, brings me back to The Office (from hell) of Aberrant Human Services , my immediate problem. It was begun by the late George W. Bush’s successor during his first term in office, and It’s stated purpose is to remove the threat of practicing lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered persons from society. I suppose if one were homosexual but married to someone of the opposite sex, and never had sex with someone of the same sex, one would not be practicing.

How miserable would that be?

However, the actual though not stated purpose of the OAHS is to provide free (slave) labor to take care of those things our now 3rd world society is no longer able to pay for; that is everything from doctoring the sick to road maintenance. So, I have a feeling my sexual proclivities would define me in the eyes of the OAHS even if I did not act on them. “The Office” as it has come to be known among lesbian, gay, bixexual and transgendered (LGBT)persons also sponsors a program in which various experimental procedures are pursued in the attempt to convert LGBT persons into “normal” heterosexual citizens. We don't talk of those who dissapear into the experimental hospitols. However, I’ve never met anyone who was so converted, so I assume that such persons are either non existent, or afraid to tell anyone of their conversion lest they be sent back to OAHS. Worse still, they may be incapable of functioning in society at all, or they may be dead.

2004-04-11T11:12:00.000-04:00

End First

My lungs felt as though I had a fist full of razor blades in them, and my legs hurt like hell as I ran toward the cave. Once inside I climbed down an embankment of rock, ran through some water, and into a narrow passage. The rock was extremely cold and I kept scraping my shoulders against sharp outcrops until my shirt was torn and my shoulders were bruised and bleeding. The roof of the passage gradually became lower as I went and I had to get down on my hands and knees and crawl. The stone floor of the cramped passage was damp and the algid rock made my hands and knees numb with the cold. After crawling through the dark for what seemed like hours, the passage opened up into a chamber. I took a small Mag Light from my pants pocket and aimed it around the chamber. The rock and dirt walls leaned precariously toward the center of the space which was not natural. A small chamber had been carved from rock and dirt. It was propped up with rough hewn timbers that formed several post and lintel structures. In the center of the ceiling between two of the almost parallel lintels was a wood trap door framed out in squared, processed timbers. I reached up to this door and rapped on it with the butt of my Mag Light.

tap, tap, tap; tap---tap---tap; tap,tap, tap
tap, tap, tap; tap---tap---tap; tap,tap, tap
tap, tap, tap; tap---tap---tap; tap,tap, tap

sound of something dragging across the door...

The door creaked and made grinding noises as though poorly fitted into its frame as it opened. Hands reached down and I was pulled up from one dark space into another. Hands took hold of my arms and pinned them behind me. I was forced to the floor, the right side of my face smashed into the splinters of a rough wooden floor. Knees jammed into my legs, back, and arms painfully.

“Say the words.”

“I am a homosexual.”

“And”

“Freedom is an illusion.”

“And”

“We will dream it anyway.”

A match was struck, and a lantern lit. I was released.

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