I was hanging out on the patio of the Lone Star Saloon last night, wishing America a Happy Birthday, amongst other things, when the conversation between the group of people I was with turned into a lively and spirited discussion concerning the art of Matthew Barney.
Everyone had an opinion. Of course, the subject of Bjork was inevitably bandied about for a brief time, as one can never seem to discuss Mr. Barney without an acknowledgment of their relationship, almost as a kind of footnote. But it was when the focus shifted to the topic of Barney's film series The Cremaster Cycle that I quickly grew uneasy.
For the uninitiated, the scope of Matthew Barney's work can be, to put it mildly, rather disturbing. But it wasn't the subject matter that caused my discomfort, it was that word: Cremaster.
The mere mention of it caused a sudden and dramatic plunge into that bottomless pit of terror that is "total recall"; a truly unwanted memory.
Back in 2004, I was the unwitting recipient of a horrific back injury on the job. I was driven immediately by a coworker to the emergency room at St. Luke's Hospital, where I was whisked into a room, which was really just a bed in the corner with a thin, gauzy curtain drawn around it. I was instructed by the nurse to strip to my underwear and to put on one of those notorious open-at-the-back hospital gowns. She then told me to lie on the bed and wait for the doctor who would be with me momentarily.
It was easier said than done, given my inability to either bend over properly or stand up straight, due to the excruciating spasms of pain in my lower back. I took my time, struggling to kick my shoes off as delicately as possible, then wiggle out of my jeans, then raise my arms to remove my shirt, which proved to be the most problematic procedure of them all. Once this was accomplished, I slipped into the gown and arranged myself on the bed, wincing in agony as I lowered myself slowly to lie flat on my back.
It seemed an age passed as I lie there, twitching and shifting on the bed, trying to find the smallest degree of comfort. Finally, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The curtain was abruptly yanked aside and my attending physician, at long last, suddenly appeared, looming over me. It is usually at this point where one would feel a sense of relief, that one's needs are finally being seen to. Oh, but no. It was at this point I realized immediately that my problems were far from over.
It was the way he ogled me. Or should I say she?
I am not one of those insecure, self-loathing gay male types who get all bent out of shape when another of our kind really queens it up in public. On the contrary, I've certainly had my moments, just ask anybody.
My doctor looked like Jim J. Bullock and acted like Christopher Lowell. A winning combination and a sure-fire hit, some would say, and I would likely be in agreement at any other time, but not now, not at this moment, not here.
He leaned in close and his shadow was on me, and his eyes remained wide and unblinking. His lips parted, his teeth showed and the corners of his mouth slowly spread and curled upwards in a Cheshire Cat grin. I could almost see the little puffy hearts and twittering birds chirping and fluttering around his head as he batted doe-eyes at me. This dude wanted me.
Not wanting to sound boorish, but I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of an unwanted advance. Usually the person has had a few drinks and they say something they probably shouldn't, at least not right after "Hello..." But this was different. I wasn't in a bar or hanging out in front of Starbucks in the Castro. I was lying on a gurney in an emergency ward in a state of complete helplessness.
Granted, that may seem like an overstatement, but the fact of the matter was that this guy made me instantly uncomfortable, and my whole body tensed as he drew near.
"I understand you're in a lot of pain..." he breathed almost into my ear. "Let me just check your Cremaster..."
The word had barely escaped his pursed lips when I felt his hand slip under the gown and between my legs, cupping my scrotum. I practically flew off the bed. I had no control over my reaction. So great was my fight-or-flight response that I completely forgot the reason I was there in the first place. The exquisite stab of pain in my back brought me around immediately and I fell back onto the bed, blinking white and shaking. The doctor bolted upright and his hands flew to his sides, a look of sheer terror on his flushed and hot face, his mouth agape.
It seemed a few minutes went by where neither of us said a word. He stood there and I laid there and we just looked at each other. A line had definitely been crossed: He was mortified and I was horrified. But it was then I realized that even though he had clearly taken advantage of me, I still felt kind of sorry for him in some strange way. Not to mention, I also felt wholly responsible for the way I reacted. I couldn't even begin to imagine what this guy must have been feeling at that moment.
There was a flurry of activity all of a sudden, the nurse reappeared, clinical jargon was spoken, x-rays were ordered, and then my doctor disappeared in a whoosh of the curtain and he was gone forever. I was given several types of pain medication and sent home, where I spent the next week in bed recovering from my injury. I returned to work the week after that.
So, yeah, that's kinda what Matthew Barney's stuff is like. And I'd like to thank him for that.
Shouts out also to Jim J. Bullock and Christopher Lowell, who both helped in ways innumerable.
And as always, I'd like to thank Bjork, almost as a kind of footnote.
No comments:
Post a Comment