Neal and I: United We Stand
by David Parsons (dparsons78@hotmail.com)
Cautiously, I have begun seeing Neal Pollack romantically once again. It has now been almost seven years since our messy and surprisingly anti-Semitic breakup, and I am tired. I’ve let my guard down, and now what I swore would never happen again has happened, again. Twice, in fact, if you count the drunken handjob behind the Copper Bucket, an absurd left-handed knob polish that ended abrubtly with an awkward slap on the ass and a rebel yell from Neal, screaming something about the “lost soul of Ichabod McWhiskey.” Jesus, how can he be so hot?
It was me who ended it originally, and for good reason. My initial attraction to him was nothing more than physical, a fantasy fuck to tighten up my atrophied libido. At the time Neal was working as a security guard at the strip mall, one of the first in the nation to have two conjoined Starbuck’s locations. It was Neal’s job to make sure customers did not become confused or violent when confronted with the harrowing options of corporate oligarchy set before them. I was sitting in Starbuck’s East, enjoying a Frappinated Chai Nuttaccino (with soy milk), when Neal Pollack copped an apparently much-needed squat by my table. When I looked into his eyes, they ice-skated a heart around my soul. I’ll never forget his first words to me.
“You know, those parking spaces are for tards only.” His elitist growl wove through my insides like a centipede, only not so disgusting.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I replied, my voice shaking and slightly nasal. “I must have missed the sign.”
“Or maybe the sign missed you.” He grabbed my hand then and planted a single kiss on the knuckle. I had never witnessed such brazen sexual confidence in a man before, particularly a security guard. “You’re the sexiest tard I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Do your keepers let you fuck?” That was enough for me. I let him know that I was a fully functioning, throbbing American male and slipped him my number, charmed to the balls.
Once the novelty of our non-stop bedroom affront to traditional Judeo-Christianity wore off, I began to realize that, if the relationship were to survive past our godless ejaculations, Neal would have to make some serious changes. The inherent hypocrisy of his hard right-wing politics only annoyed me at first, but as time wore on, so did my patience. A proud member of the Log Cabin club, Neal was active in several preposterously conservative interest groups, including the short-lived Legalize Rape Society and “Microscopic Angels,” a troupe of young men dedicated to spreading the word of Christ to laboratory stem cells.
My own political beliefs could not be further from Neal’s. I had recently graduated from film school, and was interested in making harshly critical documentaries attacking American foreign policy, also featuring extreme sports and body piercings. My thesis film had been titled Fuck You America, You Jew Asshole, and though I was not particularly proud of the project (some of the camerawork was, let’s face it, immature), I felt that it was important for Neal to see it in order to understand the humanity of the leftist movement and, more importantly, to understand me.
But Neal was as dismissive as the current administration’s attitude towards international law. “Man, you and all the other liberals are missing the point. The only thing wrong with America is that Bill Clinton is a liar. Didn’t inhale? Ha!” At the time an ardent Dittohead, Neal’s constant, irrational attacks of Clinton seemed to be his sole standing point. “Did you know that Vince Foster caught Hillary dykin’ out with Eleanor Roosevelt’s ghost, so Bill hired an abortion doctor to kill him? Why don’t you make a movie about that shit, mister baby-killer?” God, he could be so crass.
One night I was explaining a particularly dark chapter in America’s history to Neal while he fellated me. I told him about the illegal bombings in Cambodia, and the topic quickly swung to Henry Kissinger. “What an asshole,” Neal said, pausing mid-suck. “I know, and that doesn’t even get into what he did in South America,” I informed him. Neal replied, “No, not Kissinger, your asshole. It’s great. Did you wax it?”
This was the pattern for many months. I would present Neal with undeniable facts about our country’s grave missteps and he would brush them aside, only interested in his own fiercely conservative values and non-stop gay sex. Frustrated, I left a long letter on his mantle and headed out, presumably to greener and more open-minded pastures.
Since our break-up, I’ve followed Neal’s career with varying measures of disgust, contempt, and full-blown cock-lust. I can only assume that his abrupt political change of heart had something to do with our relationship, as many of his (now award-winning) pieces seem to be word for word ripoffs of the long socio-economic monologues I would give to Neal as I fucked him. His contention, for example, that George W. Bush is a “mindless donkey suck,” comes right from my mouth.
I must say, though, that I am not jealous of Neal’s success. He’s on the right side of the fence now, the only side he could be on if he wants back in my life. I’m happy that Neal has stopped seeing Sean Hannity (stop calling, Sean, it’s over!), and I’m happy that he is in my arms once again. As I told Neal while I ejaculated on his face the other day, this is an important time in American politics. It’s good to know that we will get through it together. And to those who would attempt to call an end to our rainbow flag slap party, I have five words: these colors do not run!
