kristang gay sex stallion of singapore
By kevin martens wong zhi qiang
originally published wednesday, 21 february 2024
on tigri sa chang
Koitadu | Content warning
Please first read about my writing in the Skribadorang or Writing section on the Igleza page here before reading the piece below so you have advance warning about the rather spicy things that I often like to write about, and why I choose to write about them, especially in terms of subverting unhealthy stereotypes about gay people, Kristang people, Creole people, Indigenous people, masculinity, neurodivergence, the body, healthy forms of attraction and sexuality, and using my writing to process the severe individual, collective and inter-generational trauma and abuse I have faced across my life.
Because that's all I ever was, right?
When you wine and dine with those who abused me
I hope you fucking know
what you are fighting for:
fighting for me to still be just
a fucking object.
Sad.
Pathetic.
Poor
little Kevin Martens.
We wish it hadn't happened.
We wish it was neither here nor there.
Not either or.
Just a line in someone else's face
that they make
when my name happens to sweep across the floor.
Is this how I'm supposed to feel
you love me?
Are these the values you claim
were always something more
to you?
I hope you know
I know you know
what you,
and all of my students saw.
What the Kristang still know
about who dares to call us
gigolos, and prostitutes, and whores.
I trusted you.
I still trust you.
And don't you dare fucking make me abhor
coming back from the dead for you
and making sure that you know
that I never meant war.
That until now
I am waiting for a fucking apology
from someone I never wanted to show
the door.
But izkay,
you say.
Kev has his Kristang now.
Bong ahowdy.
Yeehaw.
Ride 'em up, gay space cowboy.
As long as you always know you are
what they are not:
sellouts,
and failures,
and dismal, pathetic disappointments
to their ancestors.
Every last one who dares to say
I am not.
I am not.
I am not.
But if so
Then fucking prove it to me.
Put your honey
where your big Kristang horse is,
wild, and untamed, and free.
Because my kindness.
My beauty.
My love.
My friendship.
My charity.
Where are they now
except floating off, far away,
distantly in your dreams?
Who else be out here
riding through the deserts
and valleys
and hells
of every goddamn psyche
and infinity
and eternity
making sure that we can all be free?
Only silly old Kevin Martens,
still daring,
and daring,
and daring to believe
in you.
In me.
In being more than every repressed
Singaporean boy and man's projection
punching bag
and hollow victory.
In someone else, for once,
bringing in that golden Kevin Martens cowboy fire
and strength
and bravery.