“A dreadful sham, it is.” Dr. Chambers shook his head. “Yes, some smal percentage of gay people want very much to change, but why is that, my dear?
Because they’re il? Sick? Of course not! It’s because society puts such burdens on them, because they’re not strong enough to build a life for themselves. Any decent therapist, even one unfortunate enough to work at something cal ed The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy, would help such an individual to live a life congruent with his natural orientation.
“But some charlatans exploit these poor, tortured souls and take advantage of their desperation. They peddle false ‘cures,’ impossible ‘conversions.’ They push religion or psychiatry as tools to pervert the natural self.
“And what tools do they use? They inflict shame upon their clients, teach them to hate themselves.
How else could you get someone to repress something as basic as whom they’re born to love?”
Dr. Chambers scooted me off his lap and went to his bookshelf. “You should give this to your friend,” he said, handing me a copy of Wayne Besen’s Anything but Straight: Unmasking the Scandals and Lies Behind the Ex-Gay Myth. “It exposes these frauds for the sick, self-hating bastards they are.”
“Self-hating?” I asked him.
“Often,” said Dr. Chambers. “Many of these supposed therapists claim to be
‘ex-gay’ themselves. They can only justify their own cognitive dissonance by trying to convert others to their own internalized loathing. If the ‘patient’ buys their bul shit, they can claim that it ‘works.’If the patient is healthy enough to get the hel out of there, the ‘therapist’ can feel moral y superior. It’s a win-win for these execrable exploiters of their brothers. But you know what they say.” Dr. Chambers sighed.
“Um, misery loves company?”
“No, I was thinking of ‘Life sucks, and so do I.’” Dr.
Chambers sank to his knees. “What say we double your fee?”
If Dr. Chambers gave advice as wel as he gave head, I might have to switch therapists. Feeling significantly more relaxed, and a couple of hundred richer, I hailed a cab and went home.
Should I make it to heaven, I have no doubt that the first meal they serve wil be my mother’s stuffed cabbage. Loading up a second plateful (note to self: double cardio at the gym tomorrow), I tried to remember why I needed her out of my apartment so bad.
Then she started to speak and it al came back to me.
“It’s curtains,” she said, watching with pride as I ate.
“Mmmm,” I said, swal owing. “Curtains for who?”
“Not ‘for who.’ ‘For what.’ Your apartment. I was thinking curtains.”
“I have blinds.”
“Blinds!” my mother repeated, as if I had just uttered a heresy. “Blinds are for doctors’ offices.
Curtains are for a home. You need curtains. And some throw pil ows. Matching. I’m thinking floral.”
“OK, thanks, but I think I’l pass.” I gestured around the room. “It’s fine.”
“My son should be doing better than ‘fine.’ You’re always tel ing me that you’re making good money on your consulting work. Which, by the way, I would like to know a little more about.”
That was an area I real y wanted to avoid.
“I’m real y a blinds kind of person.” I said. “I think curtains and pil ows attract too much dust. I might be al ergic to dust. I’l have to check that out. Besides, I like it the way it is.”
“What’s to like? Inmates have better rooms than this. I feel like I’m in prison here. Where’s the color?
Where’s the drama? Where are the tchotchkes?”
“It’s fine,” I repeated.
“I don’t know why you invite me here and ask for my opinion if you’re not going to take it,” she pouted.
“I love you, Mom, but I don’t remember the part where I asked for your opinion. Actual y, I don’t remember the part where I invited you, either.”
“I assume I have an open invitation to see my only son,” she said.
“You do. But don’t you miss your own home? Your husband? I know that Dad misses you.”
“Good,” she said. “Let him miss me. Now, tel me about your work.”
I paused. Looked around the room pensively.
Settled on the windows.
“Curtains,” I said thoughtful y. “You know, now that I think about it, maybe it’s not such a bad idea. What did you have in mind?”
CHAPTER 12
The next day I hit the gym (double cardio), volunteered at The Stuff of Life for the lunch shift, and then polished off a quick client at an uptown church (don’t ask).
At 6:45, I met Freddy in front of the building on the Upper East Side where the Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy has its offices.
Once again, I went for the preppy look: Brooks Brothers khakis and blue polo shirt. Freddy looked dashing in black Juicy Couture jeans, a white T-shirt, a silver choker, and black cowboy boots with silver tips.
“You forgot the spurs,” I told him.
“I didn’t want to over-excite the masses,” he said, giving me a hug. “You look very Republican.”
“I’m trying to look unhappy with myself,” I said.
“Repressed. Self-hating.”
“That’s what I said, darling. You look Republican.”
We took the elevator to the second floor. The Center had the entire story to itself. The lobby was vast and intimidating, cold and modern in its design with lots of stainless steel and white surfaces.
“ V e r y 2001: A Space Odyssey,” Freddy observed. “Where’s HAL?”
“Straight ahead,” I said, as we walked towards a handsome but blank-looking young man sitting at a long, curved reception desk. He didn’t smile as we approached.
“Hi, we’re here for…” I began.
“Straight ahead and to your left,” he directed. “The big room at the end of that hal way.”
Freddy rested his hands on the counter. “How, if I may be so bold as to inquire, do you know what we’re here for?”
Blank Boy didn’t blink. “I assume you’re attending our free informational session, Flight from Homosexuality. Am I correct?”
“It’s the boots, isn’t it? Straight boys would never wear boots like this.”
“It’s the only session being held tonight,” HAL answered.
Freddy leaned in closer. “What do you think?” he half-whispered. “Does this shit work?”
“It did for me,” Hal said robotical y. “Have a productive session.”
Freddy pul ed me aside as we walked towards the meeting room. “We have got to get out of here!”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s like a whole Stepford thing going on here,” he hissed. “Did you see that boy? They make you straight by stealing your identity and replacing you with a pod person!”
“The pod people were Invasion of the Body Snatchers. In The Stepford Wives the women were replaced by androids. Or something like that. I don’t think it was very clear. Now stop being such a baby.”
“OK,” Freddy said, “but if I wake up in a giant pod, I am going to be very, very angry with you. Green is so not my color.”
The meeting room was as cold and sterile as the rest of the office. Ten rows of eight chairs apiece faced a raised white platform that served as a stage.
The room was brightly lit from overhead halogens.
We sat in the back where there was a chance we’d go unrecognized.
There were about forty other men in the audience.
