This piece is a response to “White Women & The Fetishization of Gay Male Romance”, published January 2nd.
Dear Mr. Dickerson (I know I should not assume anybody’s gender these days, and I am sorry for my ignorance)
I don’t know if I am enraged or merely heart-broken by your piece. I would have responded sooner, but I was in Costa Rica to treat my early January bout of SAD.
As whitish, married, fifty five-year old woman born, I came of age in the rich, vibrant Disco-era, where creative young white women and bitchin’, fresh gay boys (who came out of a much more emotionally dangerous closet then you whiners ever knew), were often soul-mates in a world that was losing the traditions of the Grand Opera Rodgers and Hammerstein. Our non-sexual and occasionally frustrating bonds sometime led us het-girls into unappetizing (but really hot) relationships with psychotic lesbians, but never for one moment did we fetishize your buggery.
And what do you mean by saying that bisexual men are not our puppets? They are everyone’s rags.
One of the biggest sorrows of my life is that none of my three sons are gay, and one is a vegetable from playing too much college football. I won’t apologize for my younger days as a fruit-fly—but I can tell you this—if you toss these young ladies out of your life you will miss them dearly as you slowly decompose.
Alicia K. Finkelberger