Member-only story
Song of My Asshole
A lyrical guide to healing one’s sexually inflicted wounds
10.
If a story needs an arc, a pleasing symmetry, then consider the rainbow, to be literal about queer symbols for a moment. A rainbow is irresolute, it has no beginning, no end. Patti LaBelle understood this. In one of her live renditions of “Over the Rainbow,” she ended by singing:
If a teeny weeny bird can fly,
Oh tell me why,
tell me why,
whyyy-y-y-y,
whyyyyyyyy,
whyyyyyyyyyyyyy caaaaaaaaan’t
9.
“The skin is all cut up,” says the first of many doctors, her rubber-gloved finger prodding at my anus. A knife-sharp pain shudders through me with each of her clumsy jabs, and her expression, as she nods in recognition of my distress, says This is not good (a look I believe all doctors should practice avoiding). Having moved to New York from Melbourne only months before, and needing medical attention without any health insurance, I was already distressed enough without her added alarm. Before I can even get my pants back up, as she moves away from me and snaps off her glove, she continues with similar tact by asking bluntly, “Are you gay?”
