The people who have been “outed” as me aren’t me, nor are they you, BdJ, Free to Be, You and Me, Edward Champion, or Dr. Mabuse. Furthermore, these people have attracted attention that is neither wanted by you nor unwanted by me, or anywhere within the twain. For those who wanted the attention, or who mistakenly believed they were loved, or for those who believed that they were “outed,” or for those who are convinced that they have a book deal, are you mad? There are only a few people who should really care and who can be loved, or who believe that this is a big deal, or who hope to stroke BdJ’s leg on the mantle.

To the critics “working” in anonymity, who have not yet been “outed” or who secretly hope to be “outed.” You have too much time on your hands, and it is quite possible you want to believe that you have “outed” yourselves. Failing that, there’s the red lipstick, the graveside bukkake, the book deal, and of course the fact that your “outing” isn’t necessarily wanted or unwanted by those who have “outed” or who are “working” to be wanted.

I quote a cynical stalker: Please. Give me strength. My life is empty. I want to fuck people for money too. To them I say, there’s a Frederick’s of Hollywood at your local mall. Whip out your credit card and begone! We need more whores in Bakersfield.

This is rubbish that has been “outed” and is not “working” and far too meta for my taste. I want to write to those who’ve been fucked (i.e., not “outed” and “working”) at least three times, preferably through their own charm and initiative. Let us return to lots of fucking, “outing,” and other things that are “working,” so that everyone can more or less be wanted, shall we?

Failing that, a public viewing of Paul Verhoeven’s Business is Business (1973) will do.