YOU’RE A C*NT! / Not my words: a man in the crowd

If you’ve ever boarded an N8 towards Hainault at 3am in full drag you might be familiar with the descent of a dreaded sense that there’s a man near you who seems suddenly possessed of the urge to defend himself against your fabulousness. There may even be more than one. And all you want to do is get home.

This can also happen, out of the blue, when you’re quietly chasing your daydreams from the window seat, pausing for thought and minding your own in regular unassuming socially acceptable civvies*; when all you are being is a man in the crowd.

And you might well be actively entertaining the risk of stirring up umbrage if you take to the stage of a pub in the east end, as a man, in a corset, with visible hair around your visible nipples, and declare right there that you‘re a miracle! Which you are. So, you might as well dance. But it could happen that a man in the crowd thinks otherwise, and although you half-expect it, it can take you by surprise to hear him yell out:

“You’re a cunt!”

Which might be true, too.

But, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, and your glad rags are a lump in the laundry bag, you switch off the lights, your head hits the pillow, and what are you then?

Perhaps you’re just another broken heart in a bloodstream.

Like every other cunt.

Who knew?

xx db xx

PS btw re: paragraph one - if you can, take a taxi (fuck the environment when your face is at stake).

*say it with sibilance