Potable water under the bridge

All it took was to lay my eyes on you, and all the 2008 memories sailed back. That brief five seconds I held you in my arms felt like infinity and right there I knew I’d be seeing you again, very soon. That knowledge became a reality that night and the day after until I realised, just like it once dawned on me seven years ago, we’re going nowhere slowly.

What is different this time around is the fact that I am wide awake and for once it looks as if you’re wounded by my maturity and disappointed that I found it easy to leave and never called; so much so you saw it fitting to antagonize my unfamiliar demeanors.

I’ll admit, I missed you. In fact, I want to be with you right this minute. Perhaps this is possible in my thirties – not in my twenties. Maybe you really are the love of my life and that your lingering taste in my mouth will be something I invigorate for as long as I find you sexually attractive. It’s also possible that you and I will merely live in sin and will continue to regularly make romantic and sexual overtures towards each other, and subsequently live to be loathed by many.

Drafting this post, it feels like I’m 22 years old all over again. God knows; I see you, I just want to fuck your brains out. The fact that your memories of me are simply the best and that in your mind I’m an angel is not helping. The fact that we both know that, every now and then, I romanticize the idea of having you stimulate my anterior rectal wall is not helping. The fact that there the question of whether or not I’d enjoy this remains a mystery is not helping.

One minute, I see us working. But knowing that you have no intention to even try and understand the concept of conciliation in our situation dislocates all prospects. Honestly, I despise this about you – which makes me wonder why I still hold you in such high regard to the extent that your soft sneeze would tear the impenetrable membrane that covers my heart.

Other times, the reality is inevitable and of course excruciating just by observing my friends’ facial expressions whenever your name comes up then I’m subjected to “are you okay?” and “say one word, and I’ll make him disappear” or “you don’t have to see him” sentiments. This is all because they care. Yet, here we are; entertaining the idea of making it work knowing very well this would never work. My poor friends…

Man, I love you. But this has to stop.

You have to work with me and help me let you go. Please help me stop hoping that one day you and I will run away together. Help me stop thinking that one day you will change for me or that I’d ever accept your irrational and selfish justifications.

There is a high possibility I’m lying to myself and that I’m fighting the inescapable; you and I truly belong together. Perhaps, I have to go back and experience once more what used to be in order to swiftly move on to the next chapter. A big part of me wishes that I’d pretend to make it work and have you hurt me in every sense of the word. Maybe then, it would be easy letting you go. But I also know for sure that doing this will damage my career; the one thing that seems to bring me constant joy. So, no.

I don’t know what to do.

Happy read!

The intolerable throbbing discomfort of love

In my experience, and in a world where narrow-mindedness holds power, nothing beats being in love; nothing beats being in love with another man and nothing beats getting hurt by another man.

So many of us find sanctuary in love while this remains the scariest territory for some. It is in love that I cry, despite being duped to believe positivity is supreme. From my face, I have wiped tears of joy and I have cleared my dotted cheeks tears of sorrow. At present, I still live to believe love is the only reason I willing step out of bed to pursue obligations.

I grew up meticulously loved. I grew up around love. I grew up with love. Yet, love remain one phenomenon I struggle to comprehend. As such, I respect love and I’m shit scared of falling in love; that time my past – and the various bedrooms I have walked in – betray this fear. Hard.  

Take me back to when I was inexperienced and immature, I utter these words each time I am hurt by another man. Yet, I look around and apparently something in me continues to entice the same species I intend to escape.

I cannot continue from here…                       

Happy read!

The bigger picture – The error in my breathing rhythm

I woke up this morning, and I realised my feet hurt.

I woke up and I realised my toes carry distinctively shaped callus of dead skin.

I realised I needed to undo my shoelaces. I realised I tie my sneakers too tight.

I woke up and I remembered I could do without shoelaces.

Just yesterday, it felt like my spirit drifts to emulate gentleness of a stream.

And yet, my feet are stumble and I’m falling apart.

Of course, I smile and continue to probe the minds of stimulating societies every day.

Now I have learnt; so much depends upon my ability to inhale.

So much relies on my decision to confidently stand up and decline.

So much depends upon the art of letting go, and a whole lot on my intuition relating to indistinct quitting.

I woke up this morning, and I realised I needed to change my story.

I woke up and I realised this cannot be my story.

I woke up and I remembered my story is different.

Yes, the sentiment to flip feminine fellas askew is common.

But, I have defined and seamlessly managed the most dreadful pains espoused by my heart.

How have you?

On a normal day, I walk on parallel and ultimately conflicting paths throughout.

Where have you been?

There’s something wrong with all of us. At least my qualms exist in the past.

I woke up this morning, and I realised my life begins today.

I woke up and I realised I’m unclear of your story nor are you an expert in mine.

I woke up and I remembered only I can undo my bondages.

I woke up and I remembered my story is different.

Happy read!

Dear S’duko*,

I lost you months ago. But, no day will ever be sadder, epitomizes despair and confusion, than the one where I realised I had to submit to the loss and let go. For a while, I chose to turn a blind eye to you pulling away; taking with you all the memories, the life along with the company we both had.

 Sure, as evidence recited, I fucked up. And me, being my mama’s son, I owned up to an error you, for reasons I still don’t know, saw as a middle finger. But then again, you had your lover’s eyes while my views could have been swayed by my millions former lovers.

 Silly me for actually believing there’s such a thing as forgiveness.

 Had it not been for the man I had, at the time, I would have lost my mind. Most likely made a fool of myself. His view was and still is that I have wronged you a million times before. How I wish you could tell him he was wrong.

 Today, it has hit me: you left with all the silver while I remained with the soul. Your shadows glitter and your presence are echoed, as I continuously gain emotional stability and physical growth. Yes, I have become fat.

 The voices in my head are correct to think I still love you. But my mama is dead-on to guess that I never meant much to you to begin with.

Happy read!

To the God(z)

Realness was redefined when you bumped me.

What I knew came to never be.

What was strange came to be.

Realness was redefined when you bumped me.

You found my eyes, and I found God.

You lived so I can know you to be real.

You gave so I could learn to receive.

The frame of mind, all around me, is new.

You call it fresh, I say it’s love.

That which you inserted in me.

The same you welcomed inside you.

Songs need not make sense anymore.

You became the fundamental lyric my lips serenaded.

My mere existence transformed your frown.

You gave me your hand, a job I reimbursed.

Realness was redefined when I gave you the time.

Vaguely, we may have created light. But we had a life.

Happy read!

Lovers on the cross

I suspend myself and swing my arms all over the bed,

My back pressing the sheets, his eyeballs lust over my nipples,

That time, his testicles hang on a cross

A cross nailed by a man whose name rings the doorbells of the past

 

The roles have changed. I am the man he is

And, he has become me, but his presence has otherwise multiplied.

I am skinny, boy you’re so fat.

 

He approaches. There is middle ground.

He finds me. I see him, coming.

He mumbles words evidently of erotic nature. There is middle ground.

I find him. He sees me, coming.

 

Happy read!

Happy hour, in his absence

With Jesus it has always been easy to deal with. His death was possibly drilling over two thousand years ago and as that of my father’s whose departure robbed me of a proper man’s touch before I could even learn to comprehend life and why was I so small while everything and everyone else was so gigantic.

In the case of Madlamini, I had no choice but to man up for my mother. I had to be the man she has always urged me to be. She was mourning her mother and my shoulders had to be broader to act as sanctuary for her fragile bone structure.

For something that happened almost five years ago, in my mother view the memory is still fresh and hurtful each day a silhouettes emulating her mother’s existence.

I assumed it gets easier, but apparently it never does.

One Saturday, in October, conceded all prospects of absolute fun, alcohol and gossip. The start, of course, was exciting and I found myself dubbing the day orgasmic.

All it took was the sight of a long lost acquaintance from the past for the day to swiftly press my emotions to the point of misery theme.

I had never been close to the woman who stood in front of me, but for one moment we had to be tight. Neither one of us planned it nor did we expect it, but shit split itself in half and we found each other embracing… Sobbing.

For someone who is well aware of how much appearance is valued in the presence of womanly men and broad-shouldered women, the masses at Neighbourgoods Market carried no value

“Oh, my goodness… Seeing you just brought back memories of him,” that was her mistake. I held her and I squeezed her so tight in an effort to hold back my tears.

“Please, say no more,” I whispered. That was my mistake.

Unfortunately, I was faced with a situation; a moment that brought the realisation that I have been pretending to have never been affected much by his death. For months, I would speak about him and the good times we used to have without a tinge of emotion. I was lying to myself. I hadn’t mourned his passing.

Lift your head up and stand tall… I think I took the phrase to heart and too far. I found myself comfortable in what I vowed I will never be. The bubbly me was visible despite suppressed emotions enthused by missing links in my life.

I hadn’t let go of him. Now, here I am. What must happen?

Happy read!

The last days

You would swear there was never a start to begin with. The beauty of a gloomy winter’s day vanishes, and a summer’s day becomes a total contrast to what your skin once felt. This is nothing more than the ending.

 

Once upon a time, you believed and trusted in a cybernetic conception your mind centered on grounds societies believe to be concrete. The grounds are firm. The hands that lay the bricks are in question. Whose hands could they be? They are not mine. You claim they are not yours too. No one wants to take the blame.

 

Almost always, the dead take the blame. We will find ourselves wanting to blame the dead and absent figures for the same responsibilities our hearts dared us to carry Unlike a crossroad; flanked by options from all remits, further routes begin and come to an end where your toenails cease to grow.

 

Where you are standing is all there is. At this point, reality is harsh and the view from the back cooks pain that is too much to bear. Your shoulders have not become broader as a man by virtue of growing testosterone; your shoulders have carried this same experienced before.

 

Woman, your breasts have not just protruded as a reaction to affluent penises; your heart has been beaten hard, once again. It is swollen. For unknown reasons, our foreheads are like those of our fathers, except something as petty as affection makes ours spurt sweat; unlike theirs.

 

Each day we live, we crawl towards achieving our heart longings; you could find us talking even when no one is paying attention. We believe people hear us. The same people we hold up high. Yet they are betrayed by their actions towards us, and we still intend to follow.

 

Many have come and gone, leaving scars of betrayal and ungratefulness. A few have stayed in the form of the packages we have become; independent and hold an objective aimed at the same satiation. With them, we lose every bit of fear, stretch the hand and reach for their intentions.

 

Today, we have broad shoulders and big breasts that can narrate our pains, but I believe we are still not listening. No matter how many times the dawn seizes the moment; accentuating ills ahead, one yearns to be important in someone’s life and one preys after individuals who can satiate this thirst.

 

Happy read!

Freedom

I am an offspring to South Africa; a country that possesses a history record that urges citizens to contribute towards an inclusive world where mutualism is a tool with which the world promotes peace and harmony among people.

The lessons her history has taught me, and my optimistic siblings, is that we can achieve anything when we stand together.

As South Africans, we pride ourselves with more than eighteen years of social equality. This era is a mirror reflecting the intense visuals of suffering, struggle and rebirth of a nation.

Yes, South Africa managed to defeat the system of segregation because people stood together as one.

Still, with that profound view of lessons and relic, and having just celebrated Freedom Day just a few days ago, we fail to understand that freedom without taking responsibility for your own well-being and without taking possession of your own destiny will unquestionably lead to some form of self-imposed oppression.

Happy read!

I give birth to myself

I give birth to myself, so it seems.

I realised this as I mulled over which hole my skinny pipe should infiltrate.

Of course, its own intentions are flexible, as opposed to what my mind anticipates and lusts for.

My two hands clutch on it, hold it together and it behaves.

This way I find myself. And, this is how I know I give birth to myself.

I conserve resentment at the sight of discernment under my roof.

Yes, in the eyes of the enemy, I am capable of pulling punches with this broken wrist of mine.

I murmur hymns and silently recite celestial idioms; calling onto sincere influences.

Suddenly, I am entirely serene. That way, I realise I give birth to myself very often.

Surely, I give birth to myself.

Carrying an abbreviated burden, the world is still conspicuously beautiful in my eyes.

Bordering opinions toss attempts, this way. Yet, my pupils are fixed on the bigger picture.

I stretch both my lips, forcing them to part and interpret what the heart emits.

And then, the light seems to be all over the tunnel. This is how I know I give birth to myself.

I am convinced I give birth to myself because my etiquettes wear panties in sun-drenched climates.

Yep! I show my nipples in the rain, my pubes hang in washing lines, as my personality wanks in corridors.

But, my undies remain glued to my etiquettes. This is how I learn my water broke.

And, I understand that I continue to give birth to myself.

Happy read!

Fragmented emotion

Unphotographable occurrences, significant utterances and attitude.

Offensive sighs, shifting of blame, middle fingers in action.

I am confused; what was meant to be is in pieces.

Just yesterday, sweetheart was an address.

Today, derogative titles are mine, yet I still hold close love.

Once upon a time, my heart knew only your bounds.

Of late, your hand clenches a scalpel.

The lips that once embraced mine speak ill of love.

Your eyes, at arm’s length, hoot undesirable fruits.

Incurable indifferences surface amid company.

Emotions have grown heavy; this has become us.

Your dream sees my end as I gather your soul from the bin.

Today, I see an animal; it approaches and it wails.

Just yesterday, you clogged lapdogs growling my way.

Of late, I dance on my own while you emulate a tired Gucci watch.

Happy read!

Daunting simple escapades

Less than a week ago, a woman held pride in being a mother to a petite, and incontestably, pretty young girl. Today, that woman draws a black veil over her naturally-haired cranium as she mourns a life that has escaped; not so much prematurely, but gutlessly.

Surely, the universe is better at bestowing indelicate ideas with imbalanced solutions. As a result, fledgling men and inexperienced women have come to disregard the affirmative capabilities that lie in their strengths.

Today, our minds teach our hands nothing, but to tie, properly, a rope around the neck.

Our view on life has changed; from that which maintained an upright perspective on all things but failure, to promptly appreciating the quick effect gorging pills have.

All of a sudden, the anguish instigated by a horny individual is enough to push someone’s Mexican-weaved sister over the edge. And, an unexpected slap, from the man whose sperm created the image one has become, holds the potential to lead a young boy to strive to kill himself.

We live in very challenging times.

Happy read!

The mathematics of lust

With all the veracity I have been clouted with in my existence, I still hold close the serene concept of a fairy-tale when it comes to relationships. Nevertheless, I am aware that many may argue that this is the same reason my many fairy-tales end-up mashed, on the potato side of things.

Given that my reciprocation in affairs tend to equal preeminent standards, offerings coming my way ought to hit the roof in excellence.

Having said that, the escapade my sexuality explored in preceding weeks has left me wincing at my initial principles; leaving me chewing reality with the same attitude I applied to my fairy-tale ideas.

I fell in what the mind understood as erotic hankering.  For the first time, my heart remained immobile.  My mind stimulated many parts of me; an effort that inspired me to pursue the prey. Hence he hovered in my surroundings.

Looking back to what had been, today, I am amazed at what maturity has done with my emotions. Also, I am pleased I kept at arms-length with the kill. Yes, I was keen on further developments. But, I was also interested in seeing and feeling his attentiveness. Alas, I almost took lead in a one man show.

Too bad, I could have made an amazing Romeo in Pretoria; despite the abrasive Joburgness in me.

I admit to this, with my objectives untainted and still clouted with a tranquil concept of a fairy-tale when it comes to relationships.

Happy read!

Free, most of yourself

There is something exciting about honesty. There is something freeing about forsaking all the clichés and delusions concerning coming clean to an individual you know, love and respect. This could be you mother, a lover or someone whom you consider a friend.

That is why; therefore, the other person looks at you and cites positive energy radiating from your direction; an aura that fills the atmosphere in your presence. It is because you have chosen to liberate your mind, body and soul from the manacles of chaos, deception and from a life based on lies.

Of course, your expectations, with regards to the response you might receive after being honest do not necessarily have to be as positive. However, the right thing has been done; and that is practising a principle that will certainly help you uphold a rigid perspective to the world. Most importantly, to the people who are willing to be part of your life.

You have control over the way other people treat you. You have the power to shape their view of you and you can teach them to respect you by not pretending to be someone you are not. Being true to yourself and to the people you surround yourself with compliments honesty.

Free most of yourself by merely being honest, completely.

Happy read!

Hello Mama

It’s me, Ulwazi…

I know I just spoke to you a few minutes ago, over the phone. But, I felt I needed to write this to you. Besides, it’s not like it’s a problem being obsessed with you. So, let me.

Mama, a few minutes ago, I had something in my left eye. Yes, the one that sees well. At first I thought it was just an insect, but whatever it was felt enthused the more I rubbed my eye.

I lost a nerve.

And, as always I was alone when I needed help, as all the people I could count were out of reach. I found myself even calling on strangers for help.

I didn’t need their money. In fact, I needed their skill to drive. Hell, I could have let them drive my car, considering that I couldn’t see properly to drive myself to the hospital.

While one of the only two people who responded intended to make seconds out of the long drive from far, the other one decided to ditch her fatigue, and plans to merely get home and sleep, and offered to come to my rescue.

Oh, the beautiful souls they are.

Mama ‘am, I panicked.

Abruptly, my mind was filled with thoughts. Thoughts about an issue we never completely discussed; an issue that has broken your spiritual limbs and dented your trust.

It was at that moment that I realised, I am stressed. In fact, that confirmed to me that the breakdown, or lack thereof, I have been questioning will come in pieces. Not in the manner the masses experience it.

My housemate’s mother must have thought I am disrespectful, given the way I figuratively annihilated her out of my way, as I performed the military slog around the house; an effort to pay respect to the ache in my eye.

Mama, what was happening with me? Do you think I need help?

Funny how I always weep when I am happy, yet I seem to have this ability to maintain a straight face when hit with deadly challenge.

Mama ‘am, do you think I am strong or I am good at faking it?

But, how do you do it, mama?

Happy read!

My voice against violence on women and children

While I may pride myself as an individual who is recognised for his exceptional work in relation to the communications and PR industry, I am keen on being acknowledged as a man who is ardent on issues concerning moral conduct in social spheres, at work and at home.

For that reason, my beliefs are sharply grim towards the ill-treatment of fellow colleagues, friends and strangers through discrimination or undue preference, in relation to their religion, gender, race, creed, sexual orientation or HIV status.

Consequently, as a way of observing the commencement of the annual 16 days of activism for no violence against women and children initiative, I would like to draw attention to the fact that violence against women and children is extensive and deeply ingrained in our society and the violence, to a large extent, is physical and perpetrated by men known to women as partners and friends, but even more so fathers. n

With that in mind, I would like to ask all the men in my cliques, at work and at home to speak and pledge against any sort of abuse of women in their surroundings. Of course, my wish is that this pledge is practised beyond the 25^th November 2012 to 10^th December 2012.

I, Ulwazi Dladla Mgwadleka, a son, a brother, a friend, a lover, a colleague and a neighbour, vow to escape inflicting verbal vindictiveness, or any sort of abuse to my female counterparts.

Happy read!

*This article is also published on www.justcurious.co.za

Thabo (eradicate indlala)

I believe that education is indisputably the best instrument towards personal development. And, I also believe that the only way I can plunge back to being poor is if I make a blunder of the prospects education has afforded me.

I believe that education is not the only lawful and correct route to putting food on the table. And, I also believe that there are alternative routes, only they require the usage of your brain with a tinge of determination, underlined by a plan.

Know that I have come to experience worry concerning you and the challenges you have, academically. The thought of you struggling to finish high school raises questions to my abilities as an educated sibling; hence self-blame unceasingly appears to arouse the feeling of guilt.

I know that poverty is a ground that breeds an environment that is damaging to people’s development; mentally, physically and emotionally.

But, know that I have come to accept and understand that there are other options you can manipulate so as to create a comfortable life for yourself.

My duties as your brother can merely go so much as making sure that you obtain basic skills that could score you a desk in an office. It is only your train of thought and ambition that can perhaps move you from that small desk by the door towards addressing blue-chip executives in a boardroom.

I am well aware that a significant path out of poverty requires a robust economy that produces jobs and good salaries. And, I am also well aware that the impact carried through the ability to raise a productive workforce can last for generations.

Do yourself a favour and defy imitating the people who constantly speak of bridging the growing gap between poor people and the rich, while unfounded are the actual actions towards accomplishing this brilliant idea and instituting it to become observable efforts.

The same voices influence young underprivileged men and women to dream big, yet no one puts an emphasis on the idea of actually waking up and working towards fulfilling that dream. As a result, your neighbours have formed part of a generation that spends most of its valuable time complaining about the government that fails them.

Beats me as to what has glued them tight on the chairs someone else built.

P.S: indlala = poverty

Happy read!

Thanksgiving

I would like to believe that my life is a testimony of how true love can shape an individual; add to that the effort of good friends and how they shape a person.

As if to emulate the life of the Messiah, it appears, right from the beginning, I had a structure of support that even my mama never anticipated; from relatives, her friends and those who found me alluring in their eyes.

Like a bad skin condition, this type of support grew with me. It carried me around my township through thick and thin, it saw me move from a high school and became stronger at university up till the strange grounds of the city of gold; where it manifested into one of the things that keep me going, despite how thorny the streets around here are.

I am not sure of how my mama sustained the support till to date. In fact, I am not even sure she did anything to keep it going. However, I am doing something to paint this structure a happy colour and to give it all the strength it needs to grow even more.

As a result, I have embraced the Western custom of observing Thanksgiving Day.

I assumed this routine last year with the sole purpose of celebrating the people who have made a constructive contribution in my life in Johannesburg.

This year, the tradition continues. And, my emotions fail to rest as I am theorising ideas to show these men and women just how grateful I am that I have them in my life.

Happy read!

We forget that we can

We have been groomed to believe that having a role model is ideal. Consequently, no one bothers to put an emphasis on the importance of working towards being a role model. That is why we find ourselves tailing the treads of people whose true stories are unknown to us.

We have adopted strange societal notions and have standardised these as tolerable customs.  Hence, we find ourselves pursuing studies that will merely place us in front of the camera, because we believe that is where money and true happiness lies. In doing so, overlooking that being a teacher, a lawyer and even a medical practitioner is still relevant as it provides greater joy and financial rewards.

Someone has been wise enough to make us believe that we can be anything we want to be. But the same person misremembered to tell us that it is through education that the daughter of a peasant can become a doctor, that a son of a mine worker can become the head of the mine and that a child of farm workers can become the president of a great nation.

An intelligent man once painted a splendid image of Dr. Precious Moloi-Motsepe, citing her impressive accolades as well as her association with the fabulous world of fashion. The same man did not mention that Dr. Moloi-Motsepe is an epitome of an African woman; who, like many South African mothers, was committed to creating a solid foundation for herself and her family. This man forgot to depict the challenges she possibly faced while working towards becoming what she had always wanted to be.

We have been made to accept that the ideas in our minds can only come alive if someone else authenticates them. It has elapsed in our hearts and minds that we all are one with the force that is greater than any other existing source in the universe. God.

We tend to take seriously the statement that suggests that what comes out of our lips has so much influence with regards to what we become. For some reason, however, we always fail to build a room for this statement when it comes to positives words that escape our lips.

When we are told we are failures, we take offence as we believe that is true. Yet we are nonchalant when we hear just how beautiful and good we are, simply because we know this to be untrue.

We live in a domain in which being provided for is the coolest thing. It does not register in our smart minds that we possess the same abilities as the individuals who assume to roles of feeding us.

In the games we play with our friends we always opt for subordinate roles and never the dominant ones, for the reason that we doubt we can be in control.

We forget that being black, poor or disabled has nothing to do with accomplishing the dreams awaiting us. We forget that we can. We forget that the problem is our laziness and lack of determination that has us constantly in need.

Happy read!

*This piece is also published on www.sivehopefoundation.co.za

Why don't you be the writer?

In between acknowledging the existence of homosexuals in societies and the subjects fully embracing their sexuality, a few heterosexuals misidentified their preliminary grasp of life on earth as an indication that they possess power and the independence to control the actions of those who materialised later.

Several gay people exiled themselves to cabinets with the intention to avoid promising discernment of any sort. Times evolved and countries held a fresh perspective on things, and then we had gay friendly households, welcoming cities and accommodative legislations. This inspired one straight mind to assume the sits of Gods.

For many gay men and butch women the journey has been decadent while some paid with their lives; a price silently ticketed by sexist presidents, uncouth neighbours as well as families driven by fear of being excluded by communities.

Because I am free, as a homosexual individual, in the presence of a sagacious conventional woman, she miscalculated my company and acquaintance for acquiescence to articulate to me who to lust over and who not to consider.

Knowledgeable mama felt she had to warn me as the reciprocals might endanger me. One could have sworn she walked the journey with me; from denying myself of the true me, lying to family and hiding from masses. One would swear she knows what is best for me. For a gay man.

You clasped silence and they utter a word. They feel your ears are famished and your life is losing weight, hence the feeding schemes they throw your way. They believe they are observant enough as you change your position and they amend your movements.

In between sleeping with other men for sexual pleasure and the straight souls knowing, the latter subjects became the artists who felt endowed to script lines for untrained gay people.

Perhaps, Madonna is no longer God. They are. Actually, heterosexuals are God.

Happy read!