Congratulations Closeted Straight Person!

It’s tough to be straight in America today. You can barely make one slanderous, ignorant comment about how you don’t think gay people have the right to be together without enduring a brief, ineffectual public outcry that is responded to by an outcry from obese people of similar volume and ineffectiveness.

But this is old news to you. You’ve been living for years in the belly of the beast: San Francisco, where to be straight is to be an outcast of the first order. In the eighties it wasn’t so bad, but then gay people started to murder straight folk amidst the AIDS scare (the majority of people with AIDS are heterosexual men and women, turns out) and they just never stopped.

You guys did your best to endure it, taking your straightness underground. You started meetings and public demonstrations to show how proud you were, wearing khaki pants and polo shirts in public and openly declaring that you listen to Howard Stern with bumper stickers and license plates. But fringe elements made the majority of Americans see you as outlandish weirdos, and so the gays have been able to pursue violence with relative carte blanche against you, with gay cops ignoring gay-on-straight violence whenever it remains, more or less, out of the public eye.

What has followed was a systematic effort to annihilate straight people in the Bay area. One by one you’ve been picked off, usually through violent public beatings after refusing invitations to watch The L-Word with co-workers. You’ve found ways to adapt, pinning tickets to a performance of Wicked to your cubicle wall and watching as much Bravo as possible so that you’re familiar with all the shit your co-workers talk about. You blend pretty effortlessly, but every once in a while you try to fuck a woman you find pretty and then you catch hell for it.

Case in point: today you’re going to read a five hundred word story about a man being beaten to death with a variety of paint cans in the famed “Meat Unpacking District” of downtown SF. You’ll recognize his name immediately: he was the last surviving attendee of the old “straight pride” rallies that you yourself used to attend back in college, when you still had hope.

They’ll believe that he was at a part, trying to coerce a woman into heterosexual sex with liquor and conversation. There will no mention of suspects or any sort of ongoing investigation, just some quotes from his parents, who still live in Los Angeles, about how violence against straight people is a shame, but that they didn’t know that their son wasn’t gay, and they’d prefer he be remembered as a good, God fearing homosexual America.

You’ll hold your tears back until you reach the bathroom: you won’t want to give yourself away to co-workers. You’ll make four trips to sob during the day, each time wondering why you had to be cursed with heterosexuality. Oh, for a pill that would make me like dicks, you’ll silently cry. That would make my life a lot easier.

Later you’ll go home and masturbate to internet porn, listed in the “straight” fetish section of your preferred tube aggregator website. Then you’ll cry a little more before going to bed.

Congratulations Closeted Straight Person!