My letting Fielding and Bart bar me from seeing my own sons, from having access to my own beloved room did not sit well with old-school Toms in the ‘hood when the word got out. I suspected Bart was the fink. Even though many of these same Toms shrank in the presence of Bart or Fielding, they sneered at me for my strategy of Metta. Everybody knew I was a Love Machine, not a fighter. Why the blame? Instead of tolerance, the local Toms told jokes comparing me to Varys that sneaky eunuch in Game of Thrones. On the upside, I was an indoor cat with bodyguards. Let these cruel Toms tell their jokes. I was untouchable, save by Bart or Fielding.
And you must also remember the time. Science had not discovered the secret of jump-starting a chap’s masculinity. Fresh discoveries are a hope to many guys. Within the last month, I was watching Tucker Snarlson. (aka Carlson). He noticed all the trouble in the world because of low-T men. If only guys would start tanning their scrotums with Red Light, they could become manly men with irresistible (to het women & gay men) bronzed scrota with puffy, baked. juicy rejuvenated testicles within them. It was a red-light miracle that, unlike traditional red-light treatments, carried no risk of VD. The treatment obviously worked. Just look at Snarlson. Back when Bart and Fielding bullied me, Snarlson would up on TV shows wearing fruity bow ties. Red light cured him. He had moved to masculine ties and ceased to have any embarrassment about being racist, misogynist, homophobic, transphobic, or demophobic. You can almost picture him in his bedroom, his bronzed scrota dazzling after a red-light session, as he prepared to have at it with his wife or a smaller catamite if his wife was unavailable. What an inspiring picture in my mind’s eye!
Then it occurred to me. Guys like Varys and me, or Jake in Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises, had no hope of benefiting from any form of Red Light Therapy. Fate had left us with empty sacks for scrota. Without bakeable testicles, the treatment would fail. We would stay as wimpy as ever, no matter how much red light we got. We’d keep wanting a collection of bow ties. We would have to develop our inner woman. We would need to rely not on testosterone but on an adaptation to our fate. Castrati must evolve crafty, female-like brains to make it in. the world. If you can’t (literally) beat them. Join them. Snarlson’s advice was a dead end.
And so, by dumb luck, and without the aid of science, I turned out to have hit upon the right method to advance myself: Acceptance. Let malicious maligner joke and sneer, I was marching forward. I had also learnt the whole family was moving to Missouri.