The Truth

This feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

In fact, as I write this, I don’t even know for certain that any of you good people will ever see it. I can’t say at this point if I’ll have the courage to hit “publish.” I guess we’ll see what comes out and how I’m feeling by the time I’m done.

I’ve been watching a “meme” make the rounds with very mixed emotions.

“Tell us seven lies about yourself!”

What fun, eh? Making stuff up, lying through your teeth, generating gales of laughter as you spin tales, each iteration more outrageous than the last.

I laughed along with you, reveling in your creativity. All of you, brilliant, and funnier than I’ll ever dream of being.

But that joy was tempered by a fear that you were laughing at me, that I’d been found out. Because as one lie leads to another and the web grows more and more complex, one is bound to slip up.

Then my worst fear came to pass, and I was “tagged” by Phydeaux to tell you some funny lies. Tagged by a good man I’ve never actually met, but who nonetheless has befriended me, or at least the “me” I’ve been presenting to you for the past eight months.

Phydeaux, my Phriend, I’m sorry. I never meant for things to get this far along without coming clean, without setting the record straight. But one thing lead to another, you know? And I got so tangled up in the lies that I was never able to find the stage door, to exit gracefully, to laugh it off and move on.

But I can’t lie any more. I feel I’ve hurt too many people, misused too many good souls who should never have been dragged down this muddy, muddled path. Fran, Lisa, Bob, and so many others – I’m sorry. I know in my heart that that’s an entirely insufficient offering for the betrayal of your collective trusts, but it’s all I can bring to the table at this point.

So now, for a change, finally, the truth:

I’m not a photographer, not by any stretch of the imagination. Not that I wouldn’t like to be, mind you; it’s just that I’m not. My little point-and-shoot shitbox camera is barely sufficient to take pictures of my dinners, many of which come from the Freezer Aisle of my local supermarket, BTW. Funny, isn’t it, how we turn our dreams into lies, and into someone else’s realities? So most of the photos I’ve been posting have come from sifting through Snap and Flickr and Photobucket sites, looking for plausible pictures and building story lines around them.

That was great fun for a while, but as some of you began to express your appreciation for “my” photographs, the pressure began to build, and my discomfort along with it. Before long I was confronted with the first of several “season changes,” and the need to find believable images to “document” my daily life.

And having “located” myself in Massachusetts ( a State which I actually did visit – once ) kept me hopping, with daily visits to “local” weather sites, major newspapers, even concert venues so I could claim to have done things there. Seriously, even without the wake-up call of being asked to lie, I was just getting more and more confused, trapped by the layers of deception and the awful feeling that I was betraying your trust.

I’ve asked myself often, over the past few months, why I did it. And I have no clear answers. How fucked up is that? How could I go this far wrong without understanding my own motives?

I do know that it had a lot to do with the fear of rejection, of not fitting in with this new community which I’d found. I like you people, I really do. And I didn’t have the strength to handle any more rejection than I’ve felt for the past twenty years (I’m presently 34.) Because you know, it’s not easy being Gay in a Red State.

That’s right. I finally said it. I finally came out, with the tears falling like rain on my keyboard. I’m owning it, because I owe you at least that much honesty in return for your kindness and your acceptance. I live in Alabama. I’m sorry.

So where do I go from here? How do I begin to make it right with you? This was starting to feel like a new home to me, a new family, even though most of you are white.

Oh yeah, that’s another thing. Those pictures of “me” – they’re actually this guy I’ve been seeing, Jorge. He was the initial inspiration for the name, The Cunning Runt. And he actually does have a cute ass, even though he’s all kinds of Catholic and won’t let me touch it. But at least he’s not hung up about the interracial thing.

Oh, My Friends – I can’t stop crying. I don’t deserve your understanding for any of this, and I wouldn’t blame you if none of you ever talked to me again. Really, in this world where all we have of each other is what we’re willing to share, I’ve betrayed you in a way which just can’t be justified.

So I’m not asking for your forgiveness, as I really don’t feel I deserve it. I’ll just ask you to remember me as The Cunning Runt, an interesting creation of a lonely black gay guy stuck in a small Southern town, surrounded by White Republicans, and wishing for friends like you.

No more lies.

Hector, The Cunning Runt.