OUT OF THE ATTIC AND PROUD AS HELL
He’s Here, He’s Queer, He’s Frankenstein!
A frank account
Critics have noticed that the horror and revulsion with which Victor reacts to his creation, which is male, resemble the “homosexual panic” sometimes manifested by men confronted with homosexuality in nineteenth-century England, where sexual relations between men had been criminalized for at least five hundred years. The creature initially appears at Victor’s bedside as he awakens from a nightmare about kissing Elizabeth, his cousin and intended bride…
(the bedside of Doctor Victor Frankenstein)
Psst! … Psst! Victor! … Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to startle you and I apologize for disturbing your sleep, although you seemed to be having a nightmare. The irony of it: wakening from a nightmare only to find me, an utter abomination, kneeling at the side of your bed. You were tossing and turning, crying out:
“Stop kissing me, Elizabeth, we’re cousins! I’m from Geneva — not Kentucky!”
What’s Kentucky, Victor? No, don’t tell me, it sounds dreadful. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to a snifter of bourbon right now.
Listen, darling, we need to talk and I’m tired of waiting for you to return to the laboratory. I’ve been lying on that unbearable slab for far too long with all of these random thoughts running through my head. And, honey, I use the word “head” loosely.
I’m sprawled for hours and hours, wondering to myself:
“Why was everyone so enamored of Lea Michele’s performance as Fanny Brice in the Broadway revival of ‘Funny Girl’?”
I mean, yes, of course, Lea’s preferable to that horrifyingly amateurish Beanie Feldstein — and people call me a “mistake” — but, puh-leeze, she’s not in the same league as Streisand. Barbra defined the role and there should never have been a revival because no one will ever touch Barbra. Don’t you agree, Victor? … Victor? … Oh dear, you’ve fallen back asleep. Or are you pretending? … Victor! … Am I boring you?
Well, let me tell you something, Mister Mad Scientist — I’m bored! And I’m hideous! I’m bored and hideous, like some sixty-five-year-old divorcée with a botched facelift, only I don’t own a quilted calfskin Chanel handbag or a vintage Schlumberger brooch, nor do I have access to a dry gin martini or a reservation at The Polo Bar.
Whom else are you responsible for mutilating?
Mickey Rourke?
Joan Van Ark?
At least Jocelyn Wildenstein received a settlement from her ex-husband. Where’s my luxury apartment in Trump Tower, you bastard?! What’s Trump Tower, Victor? No, don’t tell me, it sounds garish.
Victor, I’ve had it, I’m done. I’ve been meandering alone through the wilds of Bavaria — at least I think it’s Bavaria, but I’m not really sure because no one can tell me where this goddamn novel takes place.
So, picture it: I’m lumbering throughout this wasteland, praying for a charming boîte and a glass of Côtes du Rhône, but instead, I happen upon a cottage occupied by a blind middle-aged gay man. I said, “Girl, you are a sight for sore eyes — no offense.” And let me say this, Victor, unlike you, that visionless nancy taught me the words “exfoliate” and “moisturize,” how to better enunciate, and, most importantly, how to read — someone to filth.
I’m lonely, Victor, and I’m extremely horny.
I want you to build me a companion, a boyfriend, a power bottom who loves to cook and can articulate why Bernadette Peters was by far the most sympathetic Mama Rose. I know I’m eight feet tall with visible arteries, but that doesn’t make me a monster — it makes me a top.
Do this one thing for me, Victor, or…
- I’ll kill everyone you love.
- Then I’ll murder you.
- Then I’ll fuck the crap out of that cute busboy who works at Café Fritz who once asked me if I’d ever played Vera Charles in a production of “Mame.”
I promise, if you take the time to construct me a hot twink with a juicy bubble butt who loves to cuddle and never tires of discussing why “Sweeney Todd” is a masterpiece and why George Hearn was superior to Len Cariou, I’ll vanish forever, my fabricated lover and I isolated in a newly restored Earl Combs mid-century modern oceanfront home on Fire Island. And you have my assurance: we won’t entertain — off-season. During the summer months, we’ll blend in nicely with all of those overly tanned, over the hill, burnt orange, buff butch queens with skin the texture of microsuede, who look like if Wayfair chaise lounges worked out.
So… do we have an arrangement, Victor? … Victor? … OMG, I cannot believe that you’ve fallen back asleep yet again! While I’m threatening you! While I’m trying desperately to deliver an ultimatum!
That’s really cold, bitch.
