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THE CONTRARY IS A'LSO HOM Gre Yes, PISS ELEGANT still exists, though in a new shape. It has be c ome increasingly apparent to us that o~r little bastard child is too popular to co ntinue in it's former format (two 11x 17 sheets of"coa tetJ eighty pound paper, with posters on each sheet and a story, that cont inued with each edit ion, on the reverse). What we thought wou ld be a fun lark (and it has been!) has grown into a monster. While our other publ ication, HOMOture, has gotten rave reviews in national and local publications, as well as all the other queer 'zines, and has nearly doubled its circulation from the first issue, PISS ELEGANT has enjoyed popular support from the very day. We don't know why this is, but are happy to try to meet this demand in a fashion that w ill allow us to continue our other endeavors and let us put out PISSELEGANT more frequently. So, we have settled on the format you are ho lding in you r hands. We are also planning on various improvements to enhance your enjoyment of the 'zine. We are planning on pub lishing regularly and we are planning to offer subscriptions (see the credits for mo re information). We are also recruiting staff to help with the distribution and other production oriented duties. Reluctantly, we have also decided that PISSELEGANT needs to have it's own editorial identity separate from HOMOture. This issue reprint the first installment in our continuing story. We will reprint the second installment in our next issue, which will be =~·-:~ out in June 1991. Our third issue, which may be under the hands of a new editor, should ~ f;i~~ i:5 ~ ~~~-_:-- - come out sometime later this summer. The HomoCo one ....- - ·Inventory by Christian Huygen Well, at least I've started dream ing again. I had th is one dream whe re I was making out with this really beefy guy, but I can't tell you who it was because he is a local artist, he's this kind of famous local artist, he makes these really enormous metal things that move, and spin around, and blow each other up .... So maybe, for the sake of anonymity, we'd bette r just call him "Mark Pauline." So me and "Mark" are in the clinch, we're wasting no time, and all of a sudden our clothes just disappear-like clothes do sometimes, you know? And I'm dumbfounded , I'm transfixed, I'm staring at his chest. I mean, I don't know what "Mark's" c hest is like in real life, but in my dreams it's got sheerly monu mental proportions. And not only that: his nipples are pie rced--but not in the usual way, with a little gold ring set into the flesh of the nipple. No, no, "Mark Pauline" has got these brass nails ·driven straight into his chest, so that all that's showing is the little round head of the nail, right in the center of each aureole. And I thought that was so hot. So, "Mark" and me, we're really going at it by now, when all of a sudden "Mark" panics. He totally freezes up. "Oh, my God, " he says, "what are we doing? What in hell am I doing?" So I go, "Uh, wel l gee, Mark, I dunno ... for a minute there is kind of seemed like we were fucking-do you mind? So that was one dream I had. two Continued from previous page · Then I had this other dream where either I had done something really terrible, or else I had just been diagnosed with a life-threaten ing d isease. I decided that the only sensible thing for me to do was to commi t suicide. The method I chose was to take a butcher knife-a really huge butcher knife--and very methodically cut all of my vital organs in half. I cou ld feel the weight of the knife in my hand; I could hear and feel the knife slipping between my ribs to get at the soft organs underneath . I started w ith my heart. I cut it in half, really cleanly, and the two halves went on bea ting. They went on pumping blood, but there was nothing holding the two pieces together. There was nothing to keep them from slipping out of place. I went ahead and did my liver and kidneys a nd stomach and spleen. Sometimes I had to turn the blade to fit it between my ribs. When I finally got finished, I rea lized I had done the wrong thing. I went to the hospital, and in the emergency room they sewed up the places where I had cut through my skin. I had thin red scars all over my chest'. But they d idn't do anyth ing about the fact that I cut all my organs in half. I lay there in the hospital bed in agony, for what seemed like hours, with the broken skin of my chest covered by brittle papery bandages, and a ll of my organs floating inside my chest. Then I had this dream that ·1 kissed someone and the taste of his blood came into my mouth. It was late; he was lying half-dead in the street; some roving gang must have found him alone; he'd been be aten and broken and dropped in the gutter. I could still hea r the sound of boots fading around the next corner; I could still hear the sound of vo ices yelling "Faggot! " "Fucking queer! " I knelt on the ground and gathered him up in my arms--because I am the hero of this particular dream--and embroide red on the inside of the collar of his jacket were the words: Love Conquers All. So I kissed him. And then the taste of his blood was in my mouth. I don't know if you ever tasted blood in your mouth, but when it happens there's nothing that can make it go away. I helped him stand up. We brushed the grit and broken glass from his clothing with our hands. He said he thought he could walk if I'd hold him up. I said I'd hold him. three dNN D/\'5'/ Cr, I \).S.~- four This Disease Is A Fucking War By Kelly Doyle She had given in to resistance from the first. Fiercely independent and challenging the conventional, he wasn't destined to be a small town boy. As he matured, she also grasped that there was little about him that she understood. She only knew that a wife and a family were not for him. He had his friends, boys who mostly kept to themselves. Their anxious, upturned faces were met with a wall, a wall designed to prohibit, forbid and deny. Her personal struggle had been quiet resignation, reading the few outdated magazine articles she could find and watching Phil Donahue, trying to understand, trying to accept. But she always loved him-he was all she had. One day . he to ld her he was ready to leave the only home he had ever known. She had both dreaded and expected this day. While he packed, she recalled another day long ago and a young husband also about to leave their home, preparing to go to war. When the telegram came, she didn't open it. Somehow, she had known. His burial was quick and simple, attended only by the fami ly and a few friends. Her mother held her hand and told her, "Child, this war is like a disease. All the pretty boys are dying. " The sharp click of the locks on the suitcase snapped her back to the present. He was ready--a bus to New York, a new life. They said goodbye as she fought the tears and the growing emptiness. He found a job, then another and then a third. His letters made her head spin. He lived fast but always took the time to write. Each letter contained a little money, "to make your life easier," he wrote. The men that he mentioned in his letters changed with each writing and she quit trying to remember. She wrote him back with news of the family, Aunt Ida's operations, the cousin's marriages and children, and about the town he had left behind. She added the money he sent to her savings, thinking perhaps that she would surprise him with a visit later on . five Continu ed from page five She remembered barely noticing the first news reports with mentions of a "Gay Plague" and death. As the reports became more frequent, she began to listen and read . They made her shiver and grow cold; her letters began to encourage caution . His were wildly enthusiastic about life and love. He still sent money which she continued to saved, but now it was for a later time, a greater need. She continued to read: "Six Months and Doubling," "Entire Cities In Dread ." She understood little, except that she had to continue to read. She felt alone. He passed over her worry as trite and dismissed the relevance. His letters slowed at first, then stopped . She called and didn't recognize his voice. "Come please, if you can, " he said, "I'm sick." She held his hand and listened to the machines at work . All that reading finally paid off .

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