A Reminder: You’re Being Nice By Saying “Hi” To Me At Conventions

I’ll be attending three conventions over the next three weekends, so this seems as good a time as any to say it:

When I’m at a convention, I am convinced that nobody attending actually wants me to be there. So I stand around in silence, feeling like an awkward imposition – occasionally I’ll find someone I sorta-know through the Internets and work up the bravery to say “hello,” but just as often I’ll take too long to work up that bravery and they’ll leave twenty minutes later without me having said a thing.

And I hear people afterwards saying, “I saw you at the convention, but I didn’t want to bother you!”

Bother me?

Saying hello would be the nicest favor you could do for me.

As a socially anxious person, even a merry “Hey, I just like your work” followed by a quick exit can calm me down like you wouldn’t believe. Making a new friend at the convention, or transforming an online-only relationship into a “Hey I know that person” relationship, or catching up again with someone I had met before was too shy but didn’t think we were “Let’s say hello to each other without a reintroduction”?

Oh, it’s glorious. I’m good if you introduce me. My horror is “not being wanted,” and alas, thanks to years of terrible high school I’ve never recovered from, that’s how I feel all the time.

Saying “hello” to me is actually telling me “You’re not a bother, you’re welcome here, at least somebody wants to talk to you.” And even if I happen to have people I’m with, I always love talking to new folks, or old acquaintances. It’s not an imposition, even though I may sometimes be rushing to a presentation.

So if you see me: say howdy. And if you’re at Sensuosity, or The Geeky Kink Event, or Beyond the Love in the next three weeks, definitely say hi.

You’d be doing me a favor like you wouldn’t believe.

The Late-Night, Double Feature Picture Show: Life At Rocky Horror

The Rocky Horror Picture Show isn’t a movie to me. For me, it’s the feeling of moist rice sticking to the soles of my pantyhosed feet. It’s remembering not to wipe away that crustiness around my eyes because that’s mascara, you dolt, you need to look pretty for the audience. It’s eating french fries and gravy at three in the morning with a bunch of wasted-out weirdos down at the Athena Diner, wondering who I’m going home with that night.

I was Frank. I was the first Frank. And let me tell you, in the town of Norwalk, Connecticut – a place that didn’t have a single nightclub – that was an honor.

Because there was a single art house cinema in Norwalk, and it was a rattletrap organization called the Sono Cinema – headed by a stubborn man with no head for money and a frantic love for beautiful films. Brian would book the theater with the obscure foreign films he liked, and on a good night you’d get five people showing up. Sometimes he ran out of popcorn.

But he’d been told that running the Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight was a money-maker, and though Brian loathed the idea of “popular” cinema, he realized he needed some cash. So he ran it once, and filled the theater, but…

Nobody was doing anything.

He realized there was supposed to be shouting, and audience participation, but this was in the days before YouTube and online tutorials. The Rocky Horror was a purely hand-me-down tradition: you could only learn the rituals of flinging rice and wet newspapers by going to a raucous show and being taught.

What he had was an audience of virgins.

So he asked around. He needed someone stupid enough to dress up in women’s clothing, who would rouse an audience on, who would be shameless.

I wasn’t sure if I could be shameless before a theater full of people, but I was the only one who volunteered. I’d seen a few shows, had the tape soundtrack.

And so there was a pit crew at my house at 9:00 on a Saturday. The Rocky Horror lovers in town wanted this to work – it was a lot easier than driving an hour up to the other show in New Haven – and so I had four people in my room making me look pretty.

My mother had no idea what was going on. “Hey, mom, do you have a fake pearl necklace I can borrow?” I asked. “Crap – do you have any mascara? Oh, yeah, could I borrow some pantyhose?”

She stormed into my room, holding a set of L’eggs at arm’s length, and deposited it in my lap. “Here,” she said curtly. “This is the last thing you ask for. And I don’t want to know what you’re doing.”

And I drove to the Sono, and there was a crowd that I remember as being like a rock star audience but was probably fifty wasted college kids – and I sauntered in, flipping effortlessly to working the room, and when the show started I got up to the front of the stage in a bustierre and silk underwear and yelled, “ALL RIGHT, PEOPLE, HERE’S HOW THIS GOES. WHO BROUGHT THEIR SQUIRT GUNS?”

I became a star. Or at least a star in Norwalk, Connecticut.

I was The Rocky Horror Guy.

And there were other Rocky Horror people, a great cast of folks who I came to love, and they were also vital – but I was the person introducing the audience to the show on Fridays and Saturdays, and so I became the face of the Rocky Horror.

(…Which Brian fucking hated. He hated the gaudiness of the show, he hated the cleanup, he hated the freaks showing up all the time because this wasn’t cinema, it was spectacle, but the money let him play Un Chien Andalou again, so he let me do what I wanted.)

And to me, the Rocky Horror is barely a film. It’s a backdrop. The Rocky Horror Picture Show is a flickering blue light where I run up and down the aisles, scoping the cutest girls in the show so I can be sure to plop onto their laps at the appropriate show moment when Frank falls.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show is a set of crowded bathrooms where we put on makeup and come out to each other, that first time I really understood how complex sexuality was as I saw the straight guy with the broomhandle mustache who wasn’t a woman but this was the only place he would wear a dress, and guys going gay for a weekend to see how it felt, and women switching roles in the show as they tried on butchiness and femme to see how it felt.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show is a parking lot, where we’d all gather at 10:30 and start drinking lavishly, noting the old crew and welcoming the newcomers, we loved fresh blood because they were either folks travelling from distant Rocky shows to see ours – and they had new lines to shout at the screen, their rituals blending with ours – or they were people who’d never been here before and oh God you gotta see this it’s so wonderful have a hug this is your community fit in.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show is my own sexuality blossoming because I discovered that when you’re shameless you will find an audience, and so there were blowjobs in the back of the theater and women fucking me in hearses and sometimes taking someone’s hand and bringing them to the backstage (“Fuck the backstage!”) and discovering that someone else was already making out in there and God, were we all going to kiss each other eventually?

Probably. And we dated, and we broke up, and we cheated, and that was all right because Rocky Horror was the hub. We could be pissed at each other, but this was where we came and this was who we are and maybe I was aching because Bari and I had broken up again but there was the Time Warp and we could always dance to the Time Warp no matter how mad we were.

And people would say, “Oh, I saw Rocky Horror on VHS!” And I tried not to be snobbish, but… you gotta see it live, I’d whisper.

I did that for about four years. And eventually, the RHPS got encrusted – I ran a very loose show, where “fun” was more important than the details, and hell, if you’d seen the show three times and wanted to go nuts as Eddie roaming about the theater, well, does this jacket fit?

But eventually folks who were Very Concerned about the correct costuming wormed their way in, which led to a stage show that was about mimicking the movie perfectly, which led to a hierarchy where you had to train in the ways of Rocky Horror before you could be on stage, which created this barrier between the audience and the show that eventually strangled it.

At that point, I was more like the Rocky Horror godfather. I was an emeritus; I’d show up, do the intro, and then go hang out in the backstage or goof around in the lobby. And eventually it dissolved, along with the Sono Cinema itself.

And when people say, “Oh, Rocky Horror was on TV last night!”, well, I couldn’t watch. I’m sure it’s fine. But I’ve gone to see Rocky Horror in the theaters since, and I’ve discovered that I lied.

Because I go to see the Rocky Horror in the theaters, and it’s not Norwalk in 1989. It’s these other kids, people I don’t know, and for me Rocky Horror is walking into a room full of freaks and knowing every single one. For me, Rocky Horror is that community…

…and the community is gone.

It’s not a bad thing. Bright lights fade. I wasn’t going to be dressed as Frank forever, nor would I want to.

But there’s a film, and there’s a show, and there are remakes. They’re all good. I want you to love them.

Yet there’s no remaking that crappy theater. There’s no getting all my friends back in the same room with that same feeling of hope that tonight is gonna be awesome, we’re gonna cheer, we’re gonna make new friends, we’re gonna kiss in secret and nurture crushes and maybe touch a genital that we didn’t think we’d like except oh I kinda like that.

There’s no going back.

It’s never been the same. It’s been better. Rocky Horror catapulted me into new realms of bravery – I can give talks to rooms because shit, after you’ve faced down a hundred drunken frat boys, “giving a speech” is nothing. Rocky Horror taught me about sex, and fluidity, and tolerance. Rocky Horror taught me how to handle microfame, because I was a star for six hours a week and then I went back to work at the record shop.

All those have built me into something marvelous, and I’ve thought about going back to some theater and seeing if I could become a member of the crew again, but….

That’s trying to recreate a past.

I have a glorious future to head to.

The longing will kill you if you let it.

Whatever happened to Saturday night?
When you dressed up sharp and you felt alright
It don’t seem the same since cosmic light
Came into my life

It’s National “Don’t Be Nice To Me” Day

Yesterday, I posted a sad status that said:

Feeling isolated and alone today. Nobody did anything wrong. I just woke up this morning wreathed in failure. #brainweasels

And I was beswarmed in kind comments. Something like twenty people replied, others sent kind messages, and still others texted me to send love. Which is all wonderful, and I appreciate that, but…

I’ve got a good support system. I have my bad days, but when I have them, I also have thousands of people on my social networks who are willing to sympathize.

Others don’t.

So I am declaring today “National ‘Don’t Be Nice To Me’ Day – and what I’d like you to do today is to reach out to someone who doesn’t necessarily have a great support network and tell them you’re thinking of them. Or reach out to someone who’s having a hard time and hasn’t, for whatever reason, been able to post online to get the support they deserve.

Basically, take the kindness you were willing to show to me yesterday and use that to surprise someone else with love. Don’t tell ’em why you did it, don’t explain what today is – just text them or @ them or DM them to tell them “Hey, you know what? I’m here for you.”

And if you feel like posting this elsewhere on your blog/social media/whatever, thus converting the latent kindness people feel for you into active kindness for other people? Awesome.

Because any excuse to be nice to someone else is a great excuse.

Don’t be nice to me today.

Be great to someone else.

On Porn And Patreon.

So one of my biggest crushes on FetLife, @KattAnomia, opened up a Patreon account dedicated to her porn career – you donate to her monthly, you get a choice of some erotic photos/videos of her. And because I routinely donate to artists I enjoy through Patreon, I subscribed immediately.

Now here’s the weird thing: the Patreon subscription is actually more expensive than subscribing to her personal website. Which she’s had open for months now. I would save about $4 a month by going directly to her site.

Except that would be porn.

Whereas Patreon is for artists.

Which, I realize, is a weird distinction to make. In both cases, I pay to get nude images of one of the most attractive women on FetLife doing naughty things. But because one site is framed as “supporting creators” and the other is framed as “pay me money to whack it freely,” I was biased towards one method.

Put another way, I was -and am! – paying a $4 surcharge to transform a porn star into an artist.

Which is super-weird, because I also routinely subscribe to hot porn for the exact same reasons – if I like what someone creates, I believe they should earn enough of a living to keep creating it. (Try Desperate Amateurs and Kink.com, they’re both awesome and creative.)

But my porn subscriptions are purely selfish things. I buy them, I download all the hot movies to my hard drive, I cancel. I don’t get personally attached to the artist in the same way that I do with, say, Good Job, Brain’s podcast performances or Tailsteak’s webcomic Leftover Soup. With those guys, I feel a connection to them – deserved or not – in that they’ve consistently stimulated my brain for long enough that I’m happy to give them cash because I have not only come to like their art, but the people behind it.

With porn stars, there’s a subliminal aspect where I feel shamed for being aroused by a professional.

And porn stars are a much more personal thing these days, thanks to Twitter and FetLife and other social media. @_slut___slut_ on FetLife writes brilliant essays that detail her life as a prostitute at the Bunny Ranch – which are edited versions of her life, as she still wants to pull in clients, but you can sense her being as honest as anyone can be about their job in a highly-public arena. I know that @KattAnomia loves Magic, and her animals, and her cosplay.

I have a better sense of who my porn stars are when they’re not personally turning me on.

Basically, porn has become a thing where there’s more of a personal connection than ever – even if that connection is, as it often is with my essays, a highly-groomed connection that reflects certain aspects of the star with accuracy but quietly crops quite a bit out of the frame.  That presentation is designed to be appealing, but then again you’ll find very few successful artists who are actively griping about how much they fucking hate their job (unless that hatred is part of their appeal, like it is with Randy Milholland of Something Positive).

And yet I realized that even though I think of porn stars as artists in every way – working hard to maintain their craft, perfecting their portrayal, finding new methods of connecting with their audience – I’m less likely to give them money because it feels stickily selfish.

Part of that is, of course, the shameful way that PayPal and credit cards have stigmatized porn. I was loathe to name Katt’s Patreon account by name because I was worried they might realize what she’s doing and shut her down – though thankfully, Patreon has a very clear description of what it allows as “adult content” and Katt stays within those lines.

But other places aren’t so lucky. Try to be a porn star on GoFundMe, or even just raise funds for a charity through FetLife – you’ll get shut down. You can’t Kickstart a sexy project. And when you look for the Patreon of porn, where you can subsidize your porn stars with small payments, it’s usually some Geocities-inspired turd of a site festooned with flashing ads and created with a Vegas methodology designed to obscure how much you’re spending.

Those sites are designed to hide the porn star and magnify the site – you’ll see their clips for sale, but not their blog posts, nor links to their personal site. Whereas Patreon and Kickstarter are all about encouraging that artist’s connection – creators can turn backers into outright fans, and are in fact encouraged to do so by consistently creating kick-ass stuff and being amusing.

And I realized: I want to treat porn stars like other artists. If they’re happy, and creating stuff they love, and that stuff happens to be porn, I want to have a place where I can quickly subscribe without feeling like I’m shuffling into a darkened alleyway to sneak into the video booths.

I want to go to a place that mixes comics and writing and porn and videos and games all together, tastefully blocked so you don’t have to see it if you don’t want to, where “made you aroused” is merely one of a variety of emotional responses that is acceptable, along with “made you cry with happiness” and “made you laugh” and “made you concerned for these artificial characters.”

And right now, Patreon is that. But because of the way payments work, at any moment, Patreon could decide any sexy creator is violating their Terms of Service – which is, to say, “The terms which their overlords PayPal and their credit card processor sets” – and suddenly *poof*, porn’s back to a backwater.

We can’t mix porn and art, because financial considerations keep excluding porn.

Which is a shame. I’ll keep backing Katt on Patreon for as long as they let me, because it’s a convenient site. I don’t have to memorize another login, and I can see all of my backings in one spot, and I can occasionally get pictures of a very attractive woman doing very lewd things.

I could think of that as a $4 surcharge to transform Katt’s naked work into art.

Or I could think of it as a $4 tax to try to convince Patreon that erotic art is also worth having around.

Either way. I’m staying there for now.

The Great San Diego Donut War

I never thought it was possible to breathe sugar.  Yet each exhale had the sweet scent of powdered sucrose, I had overdosed on pastries, my heart thumping, and yet people were bringing me slices of donuts as I signed books, asking me to judge which was better, asking me to eat more sugar.

This was San Diego.

It started out innocently enough – I wasn’t sure where to go out to eat, and a dear friend of mine said, “Go eat at Extraordinary Desserts so I can live vicariously through you!”  Some Googling revealed they also had meals – we had a sandwich – but the desserts.  Oh my God, the desserts.

Donut frenzy

Donut frenzy

So we ate as much as we could of these delicious, delicious cakes, and then set out to…

Buy donuts?

Yeah. I was pretty full already, but it’s a tradition for my book tours – when I come, I bring donuts. (Because donuts represent all that is good and right in my ‘Mancer series. There’s even a guy who reads your personality through your choice of donut. Yeah, it’s a weird series.)

So I had asked my readers, “Where’s the best donuts in San Diego?” and a fight had broken out. Some said The Donut Bar had the best donuts in town – hell, they were routinely judged the best donuts in the country, they’d been written up on The Food Network, you gotta try them. But of course there was the locals’ pushback, saying Donut Bar was overrated, everybody goes there, why would you go there when there were such better donuts?

I sympathized.  (Cleveland has a famous grilled cheese bar called Melt that I find similarly overrated, and I keep having out-of-town guests who want to try it.)  Still, I figured trying the world-famous donuts would be what I wanted, so I set out there.

Except these donuts weren’t world-famous.  They were world-sized.  Check out how big these donuts were compared to my hand:

Donut frenzy

So my friends and I tried the donuts, drinking the delicious chocolate milk they also had, and I was full to brimming but hey, there was a signing. We packed up the donuts.

A dozen Donut Bar donuts were like carrying freight cargo. They couldn’t fit a dozen of these bloated donuts into a single box – we had to haul three boxes, balanced precariously, more pastry than a man had a right to.

I hoped attendance was brisk.

Yet as I was on my way to the signing, I checked into my donut thread and discovered that a reader was so enraged by my going to The Donut Bar that she was going to bring donuts from the better donut place, VG Donuts, the working-man’s donut of San Diego.

And then I had forgotten what town it was, this was San Diego, and there was a tradition of my internet friends Frito_Kal and Technophobia bringing homemade cupcakes to the signing – and these cupcakes were ‘mancer-themed, with green rock candy designed to imitate Flex, and last time the cupcakes I’d stored away had melted in the trunk so I had to try them –

Donut frenzy

– and they were delicious cupcakes but I was getting a little overdosed on sugar now between the stomach full of delicious cake and big thick Donut Bar donuts and delicious fried VG donuts and now the cupcakes and I couldn’t not have them, that would be rude and also when do I pass up donuts, but it was getting to the point of either passing up donuts or passing out and also Mysterious Galaxy, the bookstore, was getting very worried because they were running out of table space to put all these goddamned donuts –

Then came the reading. That was good! I could do nothing but listen to J. Patrick Black read from his new book Ninth City Burning, and read from my new book Fix, and I didn’t have to eat any donuts –

– except as I was starting my signing, someone burst through the door with two bags’ full of donuts, saying, “I HEARD THERE WAS A DONUT COMPETITION, AND I AM HERE TO PROVE THAT {LOCAL DONUT COMPANY} IS THE BEST!”

I wish I could tell you which donut store it was. They were pretty good. But at that point my pancreas was melting.

And when we were done – donehere is a picture of all the donuts we had left over, after about thirty people showed up and ate voluminously:

Donut frenzy

(The best donut was, predictably, VG Donuts. Hipster donuts like The Donut Bar are good, but yeah, once again, the working man’s donut won out.)

And don’t get me wrong: I was grateful for everyone who brought their own donuts to champion their cause. People should be passionate about donuts. Donuts are life. Donuts are joy. Donuts are a beauty to behold, and there’s a reason donuts save lives in my ‘Mancer series.

But that night, I ate a turkey sandwich and skipped dessert.

Trump Isn’t Ready To Be President, And Neither Was John Kerry

A commenter was complaining – with some right – that this election would determine the course of the economy, and for the last two week’s it’s been a constant stream of TRUMP GROPES.  How can we tell which candidate is qualified to, you know, be President?

And here’s my take on the issues:

Running a Presidential campaign is a lot like being the President.  It’s full of constant, unexpected vectors, you are required to make decisions that will alienate portions of the voter base, you are required to make decisions that will infuriate your own supporters.  A Presidential campaign is a hugely complicated thing to get right.

And if you bobble the campaign, you’d make a sucktacular President.

I’m not saying that winning makes you a great President by any means.  But if you watch someone’s campaign dissolve into disaster, that’s the first sign that they couldn’t get the job done.

And in particular, if you can’t handle the obvious attack ads that people will air, you’re not gonna do well in office.

Like, you know, John Kerry.  Everyone knew they were going to come after his war record.  The guys running Bush’s campaign had gone after Max Clenand’s war record in a Senate race, and that guy had lost limbs fighting for his country.  They might as well have sent him an engraved invitation saying, “WE ARE GOING AFTER YOUR STRENGTH IN THIS ELECTION IT’S WHAT WE DO RSVP ROVE AND COMPANY”

…and the attack ads came.

And Kerry spent five days dithering about how to respond.

And I thought, “God, I really don’t like Bush, but seriously, if it takes Kerry five days to respond to something every political pundit saw coming, how well is this man going to do when there’s an unexpected emergency?”

I liked a lot of what Kerry stood for.  But when the obvious attacks came, man wasn’t prepared.   And having a President who either doesn’t prepare for the obvious or can’t see the obvious or, God forbid, both?  Not so good.

Likewise, Trump’s groping comments, well, he knows what he said – or should have.  He should have prepared for the certainty that some of his tapes would have emerged at the worst possible times.  And instead, he’s blaming everyone else but himself and his campaign for not having a good answer prepared.

On a personality level, I still don’t like Hillary all that much.  But she’s that policy wonk who’s got a plan for everything.  Maybe she’s scheming, yes – but you want a schemer in the White House, because the alternative is having some dope like Kerry or Trump who are completely bollixed by the world’s most predictable events, and God damn you do not want that at the helm regardless of political stripe.

(Now only if Bush’s staff had applied the same rigor they did during his campaigns to, I dunno, predicting and boxing off the negative outcomes of the Iraq War, and we might have an entirely different country today.  Which is proof that running a successful Presidential campaign is your first hurdle to prove you’re worthy of office, but by God it is not the last.)


On Men Getting Raped. And Abused. And More. (Trigger Warning)

So Joe Scarborough said that if he had been sexually harassed by Donald Trump, he would have come forward earlier.

To which I ask:

Would you?

Would you really?

Because I’m pretty sure if Donald Trump, Alpha Male, had successfully pinned you – a dude – against a wall and grabbed your cock and maybe even, God forbid, raped you, you would have had a very difficult equation on your plate.

Because if you’re paying attention at all, you know the standard playbook people trot out against rape accusers is:


She’s a liar
* She secretly wanted it
* She’s crazy
* She should have fought harder

So what happens when you, a dude, accuse a known big-time dude of sexually assaulting you?

Well, the first three get melded into, “You’re secretly gay, and you want Donald Trump to fuck you with his huge alpha cock, and it’s a shame you’re so crazy you made all that up.”

So the story is not going to be, “BRAVE MAN STANDS UP AGAINST SEXUAL ASSAULT.”

The story is going to be, “CLOSETED HOMOSEXUAL MAYBE WANTED DONALD? WE DON’T KNOW.” From that moment on, even if you’re straight, you’re going to have a lot of questions swirling about your sexuality. What other cocks have you secretly sucked? You’re gonna have people debating how manly you are…

…which feeds straight into point #4, “You should have fought harder.” You think female rape victims get Monday-morning quarterbacked? Well, you’re gonna see every homophobic guy in existence talking about how they would have cold-cocked The Donald in a hot second, they wouldn’t have been frozen with shock or confused as to what was happening or even a little scared that Donald Trump was a guy who might scotch this $20 million business deal –

Every one of those guys are certain they would have decked Trump the minute any assault happened. You didn’t. So let’s go back to the question of whether you secretly wanted it, huh? Maybe you’re a gay dude. And in the mouths of these guys, “Gay dude” seems like a terminal insult instead of, you know, just something it’s okay to be.  (TOP TIP: It’s totally okay to be.)

Your masculinity is stripped. Because a real man doesn’t get himself into situations like that. A real man always knows what to do. A real man doesn’t let anyone take control of his life.

By losing control of your life, even for a moment, you lost your label as a real man.

Your whole contextual gender is now in question.

It’s gonna get discussed whether men can get raped. You’re gonna get asked whether you were hard when Donald touched you. God forbid you were, because even if you just happened to have an erection when a dude pawed you, that too is proof you wanted it.

And you know what happens on top of that? There’s enough assholes who think rape accusations are funny when it’s a girl. When it’s a guy? Well, there’s prison rape jokes going on alllll the time – don’t drop the soap in the shower! – and once this bombshell hits the news, every shockjock comedian is going to be making laaaaughing jokes about how you got Trumped, making you into some pansy who’s whining about a grope.

Rush Limbaugh’s gonna make fun of you. No question. Not if it hits national news. And then all of Trump’s friends will join in, saying how Trump is a nice guy and he would never do that….

And if you’re wondering where the anger at what Trump did to you is, well, it’s in there, but it’s mixed in with all this skepticism and doubt and moral judgments on you and whether you’re really a man and by the time it’s all out you have a bunch of people going, “Well, we don’t really know what happened, I can’t judge. It seems like everyone involved is a drama queen.”

Welcome to the wonderful world of rape accusations.

And here’s the thing about men being abused by their spouses, or gaslighted in relationships, or even raped by friends:

You exist.

The world will tell you that you don’t exist, because real men don’t get themselves into situations like that and guys who aren’t real men don’t exist.

But plenty of real men wind up abused. We just don’t hear you talking about it in public because, well, all the reasons I described above. There’s a lot of real men who’ve been abused, and survived, and even thrived – but they don’t talk about it because if you think it’s bad for women (AND IT IS), holy crap is it worse for a guy coming forward in American culture.

But you exist.

I see you.

And I understand why you haven’t come out to tell your story yet. I understand why it might take years. I understand why it might never happen, because it’s terrible enough when you’ve been beaten by your wife or raped as an act of vengeance or even just assaulted by a friend when you were drunk…

…but what happens after you start speaking can be so much worse.

So no, Joe Scarborough, if you had been assaulted by Donald Trump, I don’t think you would have come forward sooner. I think you’d be sitting quietly backstage, watching the headlines pile up, knowing what a firestorm your accusation would cause about Donald’s sexuality, and yours. I think you’d still be wondering whether you want to pay the cost of revelation, knowing that all that opened pain might not even do anything to the man who hurt you.

Then you’d wonder how many others were like you.

And you’d realize you’d never know because silence. Silence is so much easier.


You exist.

I see you.