Friends of Dorothy -- FOD. I first heard the expression when I was sixteen, and it wasn't until my twenties did I realize what it meant. I became a writer because words and the ways humans used them fascinated me. No matter what language, words are more dynamic than violence, more cohesive than rage, and satirically compelling.
FOD is a euphemism that originated during the Second World War. New York Socialite Dorothy Parker was an American poet with a close-knit of gay male friends in her social circle. If you were one of those fabulous gay men, you were referred to as a "friend of Dorothy."
Monologues are driven by characters thinking aloud, expressing their inner thoughts. Sometimes dramatic, sometimes humorous, the monologues in this collection are riddled with true situation, expressions, and voices. The monologues are about no one and regarding everyone, but they aren't for the faint of heart. They are gritty and unnerving, a wonderful insight into gay dimensions rarely given voice.
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EXCERPT:
Scene 3: An Unfinished Letter
My mother traded me. She gave me to her dealer for a bag of crystal meth when I was fourteen. He took me to get ice cream afterward and gave me three hundred dollars cash. My mother didn’t return home for three days, and when she did, I left for good. It took me five years to realize my mother had pimped me, and to this very day, she dictated how I would live my life. I gave in far too easily.
I lay in a New York City hospital bed in a dark, dank room reeking of Lysol, vomit and desperation, suffering from the many setbacks of full-blown AIDS, drug abuse, and the many side effects of the medications, but I’m only thinking of my mother. I laugh under my breath each time the nurse calls me Christopher or Mr. Johnson; I hardly recognize that name or person. I would’ve easily responded to a car honk or a head nod before my birth name.
When I flew away, I landed in Manhattan. On the first night, in the bus terminal of the Port Authority, I met a boy about my age who explained how I could get a good night’s sleep, food, and some cash. We walked down to the West Village and stood in front of a deli on the corner of Bleecker and Christopher Street, and my new friend taught me how to pick up men for money. My friend was an expert and taught me I didn’t have to like having sex with old men; I merely needed to be good at it. I tagged along on his first date to see what it required, and at the end of my first night, I had made five hundred dollars.
On the streets of New York, I quickly learned a good-looking, tall, and well-built young boy with beautiful black, curly hair and sparkling eyes could go far on little. My competitors were fair-haired young boys with cheeks of tan, but my exotic look melted the heart of every dirty old man that stopped to talk to me. For five years, I received many gifts from my patrons and some of them have metamorphosed into Pneumocystis Jiroveci Pneumonia, lesions, and Kaposi Sarcoma.
For the last two days, which I’m positive are my last, I have been thinking of my mother and the choices that have displaced me from her. The letter I’m attempting to write so far reads, Sorry.
My choices appear childlike, but they are mine and have shaped the person I am today. My single regret is not having a second chance to make things right with my mother.
For the first time I feel I could forgive her, tell her I hated her and she ruined my life. It’s time I accept my part of the shame. As the tears roll down my face and the familiar feeling of loneliness and anxiety all but consume me, I begin the letter to my mother again, I write one sentence and for the last time I give in, easily.
Hello Mother,
I’m sorry for all the tears I must’ve caused you, now and in the future; I blame you for nothing and forgive you for everything ...
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