A great little tirade in 1998's The Opposite of Sex nicely parallels my feelings about a recent debate on BGE's group message board, about whether Kid Leopard and some of the other veteran wrestlers at BG East, for instance, should just hang up their Speedos and retire for good, never to be seen or heard from again. The tirade, delivered while twisting a young queer boy's nipple ring, goes something like this:
Listen to me, you little grunge faggot. I survived my family, my schoolyard, every Republican, every other Democrat, Anita Bryant, the Pope, the fucking Christian Coalition, not to mention a real son of a bitch of a virus, in case you haven't noticed. In all that time since Paul Lynde and Truman Capote were the only fairies in America, I've been busting my ass so that you'd be able to do what you wanted with yours! So I don't just want your obedience right now--which I do want and plenty of it--but I want your fucking gratitude, right fucking now, or you're going to be looking down a long road for your nipple in the dirt. Do you hear what I'm saying?
What some of the under-35 kinksters out there sometimes forget is that what Leopard, Vicious, Sterling, Conlin, Dean, Perris, and others did a few decades ago (pre-HDTV, pre-QuickTime), VHS tapes of homoerotically charged wrestling shipped through the post office, was not only important in a fuzzy-focused, grainy history-in-the-making sort of way, but also fucking hot by anybody's standards. And a few of us are still alive (by cracky) for whom these wrestlers are better than 65% of today's contestants, not just because they remind us of our golden youth, but mostly because they make us clench up tight, shiver all over, and shoot loads of junk at the drywall.