Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Enter the Gay Avengers
In the dream, half real life and half Broadway show, I'm literally laying in the middle of the street, kicked and beaten.
(How I got there, I have no idea.)
Suddenly, they're looming over me: a shoulder-to-shoulder chorus line of men in army boots and black jock straps, rainbow flags hanging like breastplates over their bare chests.
My friend M, one of the line, tosses me a black jock strap of my own, and extends a hand. I take both, and climb to my feet beside him.
The army boots, I'm already wearing. I fumble with the waist button to my trousers. Time for a little on-stage costume change.
Time to don the black jock strap of power, and take my rightful place as one of the Gay Avengers.
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