THE QUEER CORRECTION

QUEER CONVERSION. BY FIRESTORM. “Every Queer in the world should be given corrective therapy to turn them straight,” said Speaker of The House Paul Freddy Marsh on the television screen in Matt and my living room, causing us both to shake our fists at the screen. “How would he like it if we started trying to 'correct' them to belike us?” I asked in an angry but off hand tone. Matt thought a moment, cocked his head at me, and gave a wink of his left eye. “You know, Mark?” he said. 'That's not a bad idea.” I can not think what he is talking about for a moment, then catch on and start to laugh. But, to my surprise, he does not follow suit. “That was a throw-away, off-hand remark, a joke, Matthew,” I say. I always use the full first name when I want his full attention. I instantly get it. “We both know the kind of therapy he is talking about is quack science at best, downright dangerous at most. Besides, finding anyone to fund any research for such a project, even if it were something that actually could work, would be impossible in a society with as much anti gay sentiment as there is here even now.” He stops and thinks a moment, then smiles and shakes his head. “All right, Mark, you're right, on the surface of what I said, that was a 'Mathew' moment, yes, I know the code. But, what I really meant is, what if we started saying that we could do that kind of conversion? How would that make them feel? Maybe then, they'd start to understand us better.” I consider a moment. “You know, Matt, you might be on to something there. Tomorrow, at lunch, let's see what we can find out about their crack pot science ideas and then start figuring out how to turn them on their heads for our own crack pot science ideas. He laughs, as do I, both knowing what utter nonsense all of this is and at how our adversaries will react when we put this forward as something as legitimate as their ideas. *** To our astonishment, the research is not nearly as difficult as we expected, and by week's end we have a diagnosis and prescribed therapy as believable sounding as the homophobes' and start advertising it on the web, being sure that within twenty-four hours there will be a host of angry responses none of which will be anything but emotional and no thinking rationally or anything at all like that involved. But our biggest surprise comes when we get home from work the evening after the day we post this. “Hello,” says a very attractive young man stepping out from behind our house just as we pull into the driveway and disembark from our car. “I am here about the corrective therapy.” For a moment I can not think what he is talking about, and I see from the look in his eyes neither can Matt. Then I see comprehension come into his eyes at the same time that it comes into my mind, and that he is fighting as hard as I not to laugh. That was a joke, I think. But, of course, now that we have a customer, we have to give him something. “Come on inside,” I say. “We'll start the process with the interview.” He nods and follows us in. Five minutes later we all sit in our living room, Matt and I on the couch and our first customer on an easy chair facing us. “OK,” I begin. “Let's start with your name.” “My name is Matthew Mark Luke John, and yes, I have heard all of the jokes many times.” “OK,” I say. “Then I won't make any. So, why do you consider yourself in need of 'Queer Correction'? Why do you think you should be converted?” “Well,” he starts off. “It's complicated, hard to explain and a bit of a long story.” I gesture around the empty room. “Do you see any other customers around here? You have our undivided attention. But to help you, we need to know your story.” Matthew John closes his eyes a moment, takes a deep breath, and begins. “I guess it all started when Angela and I, she was my then girl-friend, anyway, when she and I were making out like crazy and I realized that I was soft as could be between the legs.” “So, you are gay?” I ask, puzzled. “Then why do you need our help?” He shakes his head. “I wish it were that simple,” he says. “The truth is, I've been at least at some level turned on by guys since I was twelve years old, but I've never been able to quite break through something to get fully there, as if there is something blocking me from quite reaching the threshold of actual, conscious attraction. I can get so turned on by a guy at school that I go straight into my bathroom when I get home, but rub until supper time and never quite reach ejaculation, even though I feel close several times. And, when I masturbate with gals, it is not nearly as pleasurable and while I do always eventually ejaculate, it is always small and weak, while I can feel if I could get there with a guy it would be huge. Can you help me become who and what I know that I am meant to be?” I think a moment, and then an idea comes to me. “Which of us do you find more attractive, Matt or me?” He looks back and forth and considers quite a bit. “Matt,” he finally says. I exchange a glance with my boy-friend and see that he will try whatever I suggest again, since this young man, little more than a boy, really, clearly needs our help, if we can possibly give it. “OK,” I say. “You two are going to go into the bathroom together and. . .” Matthew John shakes his head. “And I'll masturbate with hm? I've tried something so close to that so many times that I know it won't work.” “Which is why that is not what we are going to do,” I say. “Matt is going to masturbate you. All you'll need to do is look at his face. He'll rub, relubricate, everything that is needed, until you ejaculate, and then he'll clean you up. I'll be out here when you're done, and we'll go from there” Once they enter the bathroom, all that I can do is wait and listen. At first, the noises are not promising, a lot of grunts of pain and some curses, and a few hushed but bitter in toe sounding words. But then “The Eagle Has Landed” shouts Matthew from the other side, and Matt gives a triumphant whoop. Five minutes later, “OK, Matthew, you'd better flush, but don't you think that's enough? How much do you have?” I hear a flush. “A year's worth, after everything,” our gust says. *** An hour later, he is shaking our hands heartily smiling broadly. “Thank yo both so much.” he says. “I know this is just step one,” he says, placing a very large amount of money into each of our hands. “I'll be back next week for step two.” The moment his car pulls away, Matt and I look at each other, mouths agape. “What have done Marcus?” he asks. “I don't know, Matthew,” I reply. “Step two?” The following evening, however, step two goes clear out of our minds as we see the line round the block for step one. We bring them in and hear their stories and do what we can, including Matt and I each masturbating several men, as fast as we can, getting as many in and out as possible. Several say that they were formerly gay but were put through that other therapy by family or friends and just want to get back to what they originally were. But there are also many with stories like Matthew John's, who have just never felt right as hets., and everything in between and beyond. We even make the 10:000 News. “Queer Conversion Numbers four times those of the other conversion rate, and one-hundred percent of customers satisfied and relapse rate of turning back het right at zero, much better than the other conversion therapy. In other news. . .” I mute and turn to my boy-friend. “Well, we did it. We started this out as a whimsical joke, and now we're beating them. Time to celebrate.” Matt nods silently, drops to one knee and pulls out a ring.

THE DATE

BY FIRESTORM Chris and I had been internet dating for nearly a year. It felt like much longer and no time at all. We had the best talks. I could talk to her like I'd never been able to talk to a woman before. We had so much more in common than I had ever had with another woman. Yet every time I tried to arrange an in person, face-to-face get together, she'd put me off. “Oh, this weekend isn't good for me. My brother's getting married.” “Not this weekend, it's my great-grand-mother's funeral.” And so on. “I'm starting to think that you are not as serious about this relationship as I am,” I finally typed in exasperation. “Oh, it's not that,” she replied at once. 'it's jut that I'm not sure you would like me as well if you met me face to face. I'm not exactly beautiful.” “I don't care what you look like,” I shot back at once. “I know your soul.” “Then why does an in-person meeting matter to you so much?” “Because there's only so far an online relationship can go and I want ours to go further.” There was a very long pause. “All right,” she finally said. “This Friday, at The Grill on 35th, at 8”00P.M. I'll be in the back corner booth. Don't go too crazy when you see my face.” I assured her that I wouldn't and spent the rest of the week in extreme anticipation. Finally, the glorious evening arrived, and I shaved more thuroughly than ever, took the longest and hottest shower in history, and then dressed up in the best suit I owned, having cleaned and pressed everything, even my socks and underwear, earlier in the day. I arrived at the grill five minutes early and saw a man sitting in our booth. “It's still five minutes,” I said to myself. “He'll clear out when she approaches and explains.” But fifteen minutes later, he still sat there, and no women had approached the table or even come through the door. Finally, I march over angrily and clear my throat loudly, causing him to look right at me and, very strangely in my opinion, smile. “Excuse me, Sir,” I say. “But I am supposed to be meeting someone at this exact table, she is already late, and I would appreciate it if you would move.” His smile almost reaches his ears. “Why are you smiling like that?” I demand. He stands and extends a hand. “John?” he asks ,continuing to smile. “John Sprinklsparks?” “Yes,” I say shortly. “How do you know my name? And why re you smiling so?” “Because,” he says, still beaming. “You're even handsomer than I'd hoped. I'm Chris, Christopher Lens.” “I'm looking for Christina Lens,” I almost scream. His smile fades a little, but not nearly enough for what I am currently feeling. “In any of our conversations on your account, John The Stud, on Meet Your Mate, did I ever actually say that my name was Christina, or was it always just Chris?” I think hard, desperate to make what seems to be unfolding not so, but can find no such relief. “It was always Chris,” I slowly admit. “I filled in the rest because that was what I anted it to be. So you're queer?” “I prefer the term 'gay', but yes, I am into other men, not women. I apologize for not being totally forthcoming, but I was just checking that sight out when I tumbled on you, and we got on so well that I couldn't stop. That was the reason I didn't want a face to face meeting, because I knew the good thing we had going would end when you saw my face. Shall we at least have a decent meal like two decent gentlemen before we leave this place and never speak again, or maybe you kill me.” This suggestion brings me up short. Yes, I am angry about all of this, but I am not a murderer. “I won't kill you, I promise,” I say. “I am angry, furious, yes, but I'm not a killer. Since we're here, we might as well have our meal. Beyond that, we'll see. I'm not into guys that way, but maybe we could be friends.” He gives a smile and a laugh of unexpected delight, and then we call for menus.

THE UNEXPECTED CHOICE

BY FIRESTORM She was going to have to choose. She had always known that in the end she would have to choose, but it had always seemed like the choice could be delayed, like the time when she would need to make it was a long way off. But not now. They would both be at the party this evening, and they would have to talk with each other. It was inevitable that sooner or later they would realize that the girl each of them was describing as the love of their lives was the same girl, her. She would have to choose, before then if at all possible. “But David is SO handsome and Travis is SO strong,” she mused to herself. “So how do I choose?” “Matt?” called her mom from downstairs. “It's one minute to liftoff. Are you coming soon?” “I'll be right there, Mom,” she called, doing a final touch up of her make-up. The choice would have to be made at the party, or they would make it for her by both dumping her when they learned of each other. “If that is how it happens,” she said to herself in despair as she descended the steps. “I just hope Travis doesn't mess up David's face too badly.” * “You seem distracted, Dear,” said her mom from the driver's seat. Matt sighed. “David and Travis are both going to be there tonight,” she said. “I know I need to choose, but I still can't, and I'm afraid of what Travis will do to David if he finds out either way.” Her mom said nothing, and Matt nodded in understanding. This was a mess of her making, and only she could clean it up. * “Drinks, Matt?” said David, approaching with two glasses of punch. Then he saw Travis on her arm, set the drinks down on the table, it looked like just in the nick of time, for a moment later both arms went limp and his knees went slack as he stared at the other boy, and the other boy stared back at him. Knowing that her worst fears were about to come true, Matt tried to get between them, but both shoved her lightly aside as they continued to stare at each other, although, to Matt's amazement, it did not seem to be with anger. “Um,” she began. “Travis, this is. . .” Travis turned and stared at her then. “You've been seeing him, too?” “Well, yes, er. . .” she said. “It's not, er, well. . .” “You've been keeping this fine piece of work to yourself?” asked David, continuing to stare at Travis. “You've kept this gorgeous face away from my eyes?” Travis put in. “Not that I blame you for not wanting to share.” “Well,” Matt faltered, not sure that she had heard right. “Yes, I, um, er, well...what?” Travis extended a hand towards David. “I'm Travis. Travis Matthew Thorn.” David took the hand. “David,” he said. “David Brandon Alice. I've never looked at a guy like this before, but then I've never encountered a guy that was this nice to look at before.” “There was one, once, a long time ago, before I met Martha,” Travis replied. “But that's all in the past. But, of course, now so is she.” Matt had expected the last sentence, even the use of her given name in it, but was totally bewildered by EVERYTHING else she was hearing. “She was a nice person to pass the time with,” said David. “Until meting you at this moment, but now that we have met, I'm through with her and girls period, forever.” “Me too,” said Travis. Then, each kissed the other's hand and then, right there, in front of everyone, they kissed on the lips and then headed for the dance floor together, arm in arm. Matt stared at her two former boy-friends cutting across the dance floor. Of all of the possibilities for how this night could have turned out, this was the most unexpected choice.