in all honesty i don’t know what it was;

maybe a little weekend binging of HBO’s polygamy cockbuster series big love – a weeping, sweeping, star-crossed saga of epic henpeckery, of herculean pusswhippery in deepest mormon utah.

maybe it was a faint memory from rabbit is rich.  observing two gay men, updike wrote:  how free they looked, avoiding as they do the dark swamp ‘where life grows…’

or maybe it was a further recall – the mind does this, one memory teasing out another, pursuing a faint and musical theme – this time a line from north by northwest.

‘you have me at a disadvantage,’ says cary grant to an oozing eva marie saint.  ‘because the moment i meet an attractive woman i have to start pretending i have no desire to make love to her.’

or maybe it was lunch with two gay guys the other day in which i realized with a start: i was at a disadvantage, a moral disadvantage that tinted everything.

they were free, these young men.  free of a disease which has basically defined the sport and art of the practiced male gender since eons before the quaint jurassic age:

they had given up lying to women.

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