Packing Heat

If you don’t hear from me in a few weeks, then I would have been a victim of terrorism.

Brian and I are headed towards that hotbed of terrorist activity, that center of political unrest, that city of miscreants: London. Yes, tomorrow, we are headed to the United Kingdom, hopefully to meet royalty, the beloved leader of her people, whose profile adorns a multitude of official gear, Dame Graham Norton.

We had made our vacation plans before the latest bomb scare this past June and it was too late to make any changes; we would just have to pray that we would not witness anything scarier than poor dental work during our trip. I light a candle to all the saints that protect me, including the capricious saint of all vertically-challenged dancers, St. Elton John.

To be honest with you, until recently, I have never been particularly afraid of bombs since I am quite familiar with the workings, the recipes of various cocktails: the Irish Car Bomb; the Cherry Bomb; and the most dangerous of them all, the Jägerbomb. I know, because there have been many times I’ve barely made it home with my shoes on after imbibing these drinks. I prefer that when I am bombed out of my mind, that my skull remain intact during the process. Besides, I hear that blown-out brains stains like a motherfucker; it would totally ruin my carefully selected vacation outfits.

This is on top of the fact that I have acrophobia--a fear of heights, and by extension, I am deathly afraid of flying, you know, coach. I get a skin rash from the fabrics they use in Economy. Also, I need wine and caviar immediately served to me upon embarking to calm my nerves.

But since I am not flying business class, I am resigned to squeezing myself into a small compartment, with little leg room. It’s a good thing I am limber enough to fold my legs behind my head, which I gained from years and years of ballet, gymnastics and turning tricks. But let me tell you that it is extremely difficult to hold in a fart in this position. For an eight-hour flight, this will be a challenge worthy of a Ninja Warrior.

Brian and I have started packing for the trip over a week ago. It’s hard to decide which items to bring for a nine-day trip, since we are only planning to bring a minimum of luggage: two large suitcases, two smaller ones, a backpack and just a teensy weensy cosmetics case weighing 15lbs. I intend to use it for arm curls during the long flight to keep my muscle tone. Bonus: my skin will be flawless.

It’s hard trying to anticipate all the different outfits that I would need for the different situations I may find myself in. For example, I hear the Brits have this custom of getting together in the afternoon. I believe it’s called high teabagging. What do you wear for that? Normally, my outfit is the last thing I think about when somebody puts their balls in my mouth, but tell me, do you think I should pack a bonnet? Or a bib?

Thankfully, it’s also summer there (unlike freaky Australia where it’s like freaking WINTER) so packing for the heat means only one thing: I have to bring a swimsuit. To save space, I am trying to decide whether I should bring a pair of thongs or a pair of band-aids. I think the band-aids are more modest, so I decide to bring those.

And just the shoes alone can fill up a suitcase: black shoes, brown shoes, sneakers, sandals, flip-flops and that’s just what I need during the day. For the evening, I have similar items but more formal and tasteful, you know, with rhinestones.

Then, there’s also the uncertainty of the quality of the hotels. I hear that the star ratings of London hotels are wildly different from U.S. hotels. TripAdvisor.com had some very dire descriptions of the hotels. Whereas a five-star here means an Olympic-sized pool, in London, it could mean that they don’t have a pool of, you know, piss, on the carpet. We just have to bite the bullet, pick one and hope that even if it turns out to be a fleabag hotel, the British fleas won’t bite us out of disdain for Americans.

But joking aside, we’re pretty excited. We are totally looking forward to it. It’s going to be a totally different culture and they even speak a totally different language. I'm just afraid that if someone asks ‘you gotta fag?’ whether he wants me to give him a cigarette or an impromptu dance number.

However, just in case, I’ll pack some Marlboros, a lighter and of course, my tap shoes...

NEXT: Counter-clockwise

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Other places I've been:

Warmth - I slid into the warmth of Montreal. Thank God I brought lots of lube.

Wedding Party - We arrive at the City by the Gay, San Francisco, our capital city.

Giving Up

by Rob!

Sometime in the 80s. Lost in Space reruns. The show would be much better if Major Don West would take off his shirt. I bet he looks like the guys in the JCPenny catalog. You know, in the underwear section. I'm not quite sure, but I am thinking he may be a better "actor" than Burt Ward of TV's Batman. Although Robin does wear tights. Hmmm.

I wonder if my mom is buying my whole "I hate it when you watch Days of Our Lives" routine. The truth is, I love it. I wish that show was on 24/7. Billy Warlock as Frankie Brady. Billy Hufsey as Emilio Ramirez. And of course, Steve Burton as Harris Michaels. Too bad there isn't some way to pause the TV. Those hot, steamy scenes go by way too fast!

School sucks. I hate it when we play kickball. Four Square is way better. And why can't everyday be gymnastics day in P.E.? Football bites.

I can't wait for Saturday! Grocery shopping day. While mom goes looking for the best price on generic pop, I've got to get caught up on my Teen Beat. I'm way behind on the news. I've got to find out what Kirk Cameron did on his summer vacation, what Joey-Joe McIntyre's favorite Jelly Belly flavor is, and which actress Chad Allen is dating. Chad is so dreamy. It sucks that he has a girlfriend. Too bad we don't know each other. I bet he'd want to hang out. Play Chinese jump rope or something.

I hope I have enough allowance saved up to get that Samantha Fox 45. I don't see why the guys at school think she is so hot. I think it's disgusting that she did porn. Why would anyone pay money to see her Virginia? I do love lip syncing to her songs, though. Naughty girls need love too!


20 years later. Crap. They're gonna be here in 20 minutes. Hide the Wizard of Oz box set behind the Godfather trilogy. Swap out the Bath and Body Works soap with some Dial. Put the candles away. Let's make this place macho! Too bad I don't have any Traci Lords posters to hang up on my bedroom wall. Is she still popular? Is she still alive?

Am I walking too gay? Talking too gay? What will he think? What will she think? Maybe it's a phase? I'm sure I just need to meet the right girl. Yeah. That's it. The right girl. How about the blond at work? I suppose I could convince myself to become attracted to her. Maybe I should think about her as I drift off to sleep...I'll have one of those 'dreams' they talk about and when I wake up...I'll be in love! Yeah! That's it!

Don't get too excited when Regina's "Baby Love" comes on the radio during the flashback hour. Don't let it slip that you saw the New Kids, Paula Abdul, Lisa Lisa and Milli Vanilli back in junior high. Embarrassing! Don't wear that lavender shirt to work, even though it does compliment your skin nicely...people will talk. Life sucks.


2007. Looking back...I can't believe how ridiculous all of that masquerading was. All the anxiety. All the depression. Tons of stress. What a waste.

I must have been about 25 when Danny Roberts and his fine ass were on the The Real World-New Orleans. Talk about dreamy. Here's this guy, coming out on national TV, a masculine guy dating a soldier. If this guy can say 'fuck it,' then why can't I? Why must I live in constant paranoia?

You're taught by your parents not to give up. But giving up was one of the best things I ever did.

I gave up pretending to be someone I wasn't. It was too much work. I hate hassle. I'm sure that in all my efforts to be more masculine, I probably came across as some sort of joke. Like when Scooby Doo would dress up in that trench coat and pretend to be human...with his tail wagging out the back. Stupid stoner dog.

Besides being constantly paranoid, I was hurting those close to me. There were a couple of times in high school that I had been asked out by girls and had to politely decline. Without being able to tell them the real reason, they'd often go away crushed; feelings hurt. Some of those friendships were never the same again. I was sick of hurting my friends, hurting myself, and being alone.

Falling in love is not a choice. Being attracted to someone is not a choice. It just happens. I just don't understand why people can't get that through their heads. It's not about having mother issues, no father, too much estrogen, not enough Jesus. None of that matters. We are attracted to different people the same way we are attracted to different colors, different music, foods, TV shows, colognes.

I don't mean to put one plight above another. Yet it's hard to hide the fact that you are a Black. Or an Asian. Or a woman. But hiding your homosexuality? It's pretty easy. In fact, even if you are a nelly straight out of Paul Lynde's closet, just keeping to yourself should do just fine. No one will ask...for fear that they might catch a case of the gay. Or AIDS! Yikes! It's the ease of hiding that makes it so hard for us to tear down the wall.

I'm glad I was able to see a role model in some two-bit reality star. We need more role models. No one has anything to be ashamed about. Get out there and be proud. You don't have to be famous. You don't have to be the Grand Marshall of the Pride Parade. You don't have to be the poster boy for some smutty bathhouse. You just have to be yourself. Go and show others that being gay isn't about being dressed in pink and listening to Barbara Streisand (although she is divine, isn't she?) And not every gay likes to get it up the tush.

We all need to stop acting like someone else and start being ourselves. And I'm not just talking about the gays out there. This message is for everyone. Be who you want to be, dammit! Do what feels right. Don't try to live according to someone else's rules. Who cares what a book or a celibate man has to say? Do what feels right. Be happy. Make yourself happy. Love yourself. Love each other. Respect.



Our guest blogger Rob! writes that superfab pop culture blog Welcome To The Bloghouse. His current favorite TV show is So You Think You Can Dance and he will give you a blow-by-blowjob account of Wade Robson's tight ass. Make sure to check out his archives.


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Other really gay posts:

Coming To Terms - nate, a visitor, mongers hate and flings curses.

My Fiscal Year - I already came out to my family--sorta.

Burnt Lunch

I swear I didn’t do on purpose! How was I to know that nuking a Leona's take-out was going to cause a small fire?

It was only leftover penne arrabbiata, from a week ago. I figured it’s the oldest thing in my fridge and I better eat it before it started growing fungus. That would be bad because I don’t have any good recipes for mushrooms. I’d have to throw it out and as I’ve said before, that goes against everything I’ve been taught in Sunday School by Sister Mary Giada De Laurentiis.

What? Turning on the Food Network on Sunday counts as Sunday School. It’s a deeply religious experience: first I turn on the serene, beatific Giada, then I tune in to Tyler’s Ultimate and imagine myself prostrate on the altar of Chef Tyler Florence, naked, writhing on a bed of romaine, covered in his special brand of thick Italian dressing. The thought of it makes my bread rise. Soon enough, it is warm, thick and splay--ready for eating.

My penne arrabbiata was in a Chinese take-out container, which is weird, because Leona’s is an Italian Restaurant/Pizzeria. You’d think that the container would be something more fitting for Italian food, like maybe, you know, a gondola. But I can see why they opted for a Chinese take-out container. It’s cheap, just a piece of cardboard folded into a container--ingenious, really. It’s just one of those things that the Chinese have graciously shared with the world, like the fortune cookie, tofu and the classic ‘me rove you wroooong time!!!’

Most days, I half-expect not to find my food in the office fridge. Has someone ever stolen your lunch? Have you thought about taking somebody else's lunch?

Once, I had half a steak sandwich gone missing. This troubled me greatly. I wished that I had a photo of the sandwich so I could put up a “Have You Seen This Sandwich?” sign with the photo of my young, innocent sandwich and my phone extension on it. Instead, I had to settle for a description: ‘6 day-old steak sandwich, medium rare on foccacia, light mayo--no cheese, last seen lovingly wrapped in a pale yellow wax paper.’ They say that by individualizing the victim, it humanizes them to their captor.

This person had to be stopped. I mean, who who who but a sinister person would take some unknown co-worker’s food from the fridge and eat it? This person had no morals whatsoever and should be stopped before they molested some child like they molested my poor steak sandwich. Did they rub it on their privates before consuming that tender, seasoned flesh? My stomach turned at the thought.

It’s totally insane, just the idea of eating somebody else’s food. What if the person didn’t wash their hands after going to the bathroom before making the sandwich? What if it was made by a vengeful wife who peed into the spaghetti sauce after finding lipstick on her husband’s underwear? And oh-dear-god-in-heaven, what if it was a salad that had ICEBERG LETTUCE. Shock!

But my food was there, so I took the take-out container by its aluminum handle and put it in the microwave oven. I don’t know about you, but I like my food piping hot--scalding, if possible. I like to feel the sizzle; it’s more appetizing that way. I hate eating through my food and finding a cold middle. It’s almost like dating a Korean guy and finding out he can’t do calculus or my laundry. It’s annoying and somewhat disappointing.

I figured that five minutes should do it. Since I am always afraid of bacteria, I add an extra minute to kill off those tiny little buggers. 6-0-0, I punched into the keypad. Start.

I settled down with my current book, a real page-turner: Soon I Will Be Invincible, so I am quickly absorbed. The lunch room was empty so it was pretty quiet save for the low, steady hum of the microwave.

Then suddenly, a few minutes in, I smelled smoke. Looking up, I saw wisps of black smoke seeping out of the sides of the microwave’s door. I jumped up and flew across the room to shut it off.

The door of the microwave sprung open. Inside, the white container was black where the handle was attached, small embers forming around the super-heated aluminum. I grabbed the hot container and threw it into the kitchen sink, burning my fingers. I turned on the water.

The inside of the microwave was sooty. Panic rising, I close the door, took the wet container from the sink, threw it into the trash and ran out of the lunch room. I felt a bit like a criminal leaving a crime scene. I wished I had time to wipe down for fingerprints. Everybody’s a fucking CSI these days; forensics is the new porn.

An hour later, I passed some people in the hallway jabbering about the lunch room. I kept quiet, avoiding eye contact. I was afraid that my guilt, combined with my now-acute hunger, would show on my face.

Inexplicably, at around 330pm, I found myself back in the lunch room. The counter where the microwave sat, was bare; only a smoky outline the evidence of its existence. What was it they say? A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime?

My stomach rumbled and churned.

I was drawn to the refrigerator. I opened the door, staring at the contents. Now, my colleagues’ food are somehow different: enticing--sexy. With nervous fingers, I picked up somebody’s Gladware, peering inside. It looked like pad thai; bits of peanut clinging on the pale, translucent noodle strands.

I struggled briefly, then I put it back. Right then, I was that person who stole your lunch. A foodnapper. A snack pirate. A hamburglar.

Right then, I didn’t even care that there could’ve been, you know, pee in the pad thai...



I finished reading the book Soon I Will Be Invincible by Austin Grossman and I loved it. This book is about a super-villain Doctor Impossible who escapes from a maximum-security prison, who despite several failures to take over the world, compulsively plots to do it again, like it was a tic. At one point, he finds himself blurting out “I. Am. A. GENIUS!” and then kicking himself afterwards for being so stereotypical. Meanwhile, his ex-girlfriend Lily (good? evil?) joins the equivalent of the Justice League. She, who has intimate knowledge of his personality. Would she help bring abut his defeat or is she a plant? This book is for you geeks. It’s funny, exciting and it fucking rocks.

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Other posts about work:

Things That Might Drive Joe To Crazyville - Guest blogger Joe rants about work. Flying Toasters - It is just another cruelty that there is no free coffee at work.

Solitary Confinement - My assignment honed my skills at goofing off. Three Hours - That's how long my commute was, each minute closer to my demise.

Check out my other recommendations, including "Books You Must Read" and "CDs for a Desert Island" here.

This Is Where I Self-Destruct

This is when I let my doubts, my insecurities into the room. Doubt sits at the foot the bed and Insecurity lies beside me, its head nestled on my stomach.

My boyfriend is asking me why I'm quiet. If I were trying to talk things over, if I were trying to make this right, I would answer him instead of giving him the silent treatment--my favorite argument tactic--because it's the only way to I know to resolve conflict in relationships in a totally, you know, mature way. I would make an effort to communicate and tell him why this bugs me and maybe we could come to an agreement.

In the early days of our relationship, I would've been more forthcoming, probably because I was afraid he would break up with me, which scared the shit out of me, because I was barely hanging on to 155 lbs. If he had broken up with me, it would've sent me in a tailspin and I would’ve ended up rock bottom, at bottom of a bag of potato chips, party size, for my party of one.

Why is it that when I am happy, I can't just be happy? I have to think about why I am happy, how much longer I will be happy and whether I should buy some more lube just in case this happiness last longer than another 20 minutes. At least when you're miserable, you could wallow in it. But whoever heard of wallowing in happiness? If you do, maybe you should check the dosage of your medication.

I have to ask myself: Is this going to last? Is he going to stop loving me? How much longer is he going to keep doing the laundry? I have become used to having him in my life. If we split up, how am I going to keep the evil telemarketers at bay?

How am I going to survive without knowing how to operate the dishwasher?

He alway pretends to be me when a telemarketer calls, "May I speak with Paul?" This is by the way, is a dead giveaway that the caller is a telemarketer. When my friends, my family call me, they say, "Wazzup, hookah??!?" Except of course, my grandma, who is quite genteel so she says, "What's going on with my little prostitute?"

I can't deal with telemarketers because I always end up buying whatever shit they are selling or answering totally insane and ridiculous surveys about the state of our Economy. I don't know why I can't do what any normal person would do and just scream obscenities into the phone and hang up. I just can’t do that.

Why am I mad?

I'm mad because he told his mother we'd have dinner with her at the Olive Garden without asking me. I mean, how could he, when I could've been planning some big fancy dinner for us with the package of baloney and an egg in our refrigerator. I mean, it wasn't that big a deal, but at least ask me--I would’ve said yes.

Now, I have to suffer through the 'endless salad and breadsticks,' tediously asking for an umpteenth refill. Then, I have to make sure I lined my man-purse with a large baggie so I could fill it 'leftover' bread and salad.

Yes, it made me angry, which is nuts because, like I said, I would’ve gone anyway. If this was the first year of our relationship, instead of the fifth, I would've even enthusiastically tried to think of a creative gift idea for her. After all, I would've still been trying to buy her affection, instead of merely tolerating her.

So instead, I give him the silent treatment, which by the way, is easier when you've just had botox. Later, I may even throw a fit or pick an argument, I don't know, depending on my mood and outfit. It's hard to act huffy when you're not wearing a feather boa or a pashmina.

Why do I do this? Why can't I let a relationship be? Why do I have to second-guess myself? Why do I have to question the status quo?

And whyohwhy do I let Doubt and Insecurity lie on my bed, especially when Doubt constantly sheds and Insecurity has fleas...


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Cary Tennis, that wise Salon.com sage advises a man from his dark thoughts which mirror my own.

Other related posts:

Detour - We carry our heavy emotional baggage through an SF airport. It Don't Smell Like Roses - I believed in the Happily Ever After. Boy, was I wrong.

Stuttering - You can't argue with a hot Marine who stutters. Girl, Interrupted - A national argument about a girlfriend in a coma.

Cheaper Sneakers

"They're turning kids into slaves 
                 just to make cheaper sneakers.
But what's the real cost? 
      'Cause the sneakers don't seem that much cheaper..."

"Think About It"
Flight of the Conchords

word.

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Other related posts:

The Assassin - A night with another comedian, Margaret Cho

A Blogless World - A slave to blogging, I imagine a world without blogs.

Watch the Video.

Death Wish

Don't you sometimes wish that somebody was dead, just because they have so much power over you? Someone maybe like, you know, like your boss, or your teacher, or like, Madonna? Yeah, sometimes I wish that Madonna were dead.

Ok not really, I am totally looking forward to her next album, even though Confessions on the Dancefloor left me a little cold.

But sometimes, I wish my mother were dead.

Is that horrible? You can say it, tell me I'm horrible, it's okay. Sometimes, I wish that Cher was dead too.

Ok, that's not really true either. You who have children know this; your kids have wished you dead a thousand times to your face for not letting them drive the car, play video games or to wear make-up to the boy scout troop.

I don't really want my mother to be dead. My mother is the only person in the world who can really get to me, she's the only one in the world who can put any kind of sense in my head. She's the only person in the world who can make me feel happy and sad and angry all at the same time.

In my last visit home in the Philippines, my mother drove me around town. She wouldn't let me drive her car, ever since I backed the car into the garage door. What? I was fifteen but I was paying attention and totally looking at the rearview mirror, you know, at my hair.

And as we usually do while we're in the car, we were having an argument about my financial situation, my "bachelorhood," my eclectic choices in deodorant. The conversation would go from a discussion of what diets we were on, to how long to hard-boil an egg, to why-the-hell-aren't-you-married-yet? Sometimes it would go exactly like that, except without the first two topics.

It's a touchy subject, one that nobody in my family would ever have the nerve to bring up sober--or at least when I'm sober.

When I'm drunk, then it's free game where all the old aunties come by and sit around and they all start planning my big fat heterosexual wedding. I don't have the heart to tell them that I would never get married unless there were Limoges china involved. And a shotgun. And the girl had a penis.

My mom brings it up at every opportunity, as if my "sell by" date is fast approaching, that if I don't get married soon, I would have to be marked down for a quick sale. She doesn't know that in local circles, I am already cheaper than a whore with no boobs and a crystal meth habit. She thinks that the right girl will "turn" me back, back into a werewolf with my bushy unibrow and untrimmed man-lawn. Which is sad, but I think she prefers that. She prefers me with wild bushy pubic hair. Mothers. Sigh.

I remember the day my younger sister got married, my mother was so radiant, so happy, you'd think it was her own wedding day. We were all having a wonderful time, drinking, laughing. My mother was in her element. She was able to marry off one of her four children. I think that she thought that we would all get married in succession, inevitable, like time or tide. Or herpes.

That was ten years ago, my sister is still the only married one of her children.

Sometimes, when I think about my mother, it makes me really sad, especially when I think that if something were to happen to her, I will not be by her side. Even if I rush on the next flight to the Philippines from Chicago, it will be 16 hours, 45 minutes and a smelly cab ride too late.

Once, I woke up in the middle of the night and thought that I was back home, until my eyes adjusted to the darkness and realized that I was not. It filled me with a small despair; I could not walk out of my bedroom and find my mother's bedroom down the hall.

The thought of my mother slipping away from the world scares me, and I wish--don't think me callous (even though I don't blame you if you do)--that she was already gone, the grief already behind me, because I don't know that it will ever be behind me.

This distance from my mother and my family is an ache in me. It is always with me, like a pebble in my shoe. If my Mom were to be gone, I would miss that ache, that pebble.

Mom, I wish you can be with me forever.


I had debated whether to put up this post. Most of the time, when I write, I don’t censor myself, I let my thoughts wander freely. This was supposed to be my Mother’s Day post and I was in sort of a mood when I wrote it.

Did I go too far? I feared that mothers might launch a vendetta against me, or conspire to give me a bad perm. When I asked my boyfriend to read it, he said it to was too dark, which I kinda knew, especially since we were both sitting in the living room with the lights off.

To heck with it, let it be posted. You tell me if I crossed the line.

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Engagement - On her deathbed, my grandmother schemed to get my dad married off. Letter From Home - I come across a letter from my mother which tugs my heartstrings.

voyeur - I stumble on a train wreck of a blog, of someone who wishes he were dead. My Sister, The Hurricane - The baby of our family fulfills our genetic destiny.

Cary Tennis of Salon.com advises a man who can't get home before his mother dies.

Because It's About You

(c) 2005 The New Yorker

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you were born and so you're free - Take a wonderful, dark and poetic journey, from deathbed to oblivion, written and drawn by Anders Nilsen.

Cartoons - The New Yorker cartoons slay me. These are ones which have appeared in this site over the years.

Day After Pride

Previously: The Love Parade

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My friend Daniel who has never been to a Gay Pride parade declined to join us in yesterday’s festivities, demurring that while he's gay, he's "not the 'out and proud' type of guy," which is quite sad, because I think that every gay person in the world should be proud of who they are and own at least five pieces of tacky Gay Pride accessories to prove it. Just one piece less is just not proud enough for me.

It is quite understandable really, for someone such as Daniel, who had only recently come out of the closet, with his oversized hockey jerseys which he wears as clubwear still hanging on the rod, to feel that he's not ready to celebrate the person inside. It’s scary to come to such a public event where anybody can see you and assume that just by standing in the throng, you are totally depraved and immoral and you use your anal canal as an alternative habitat for gerbils.

I used to think that way myself. My friends had to encourage me, to cajole me and then to threaten to hold me down and put blue eyeshadow on me before I gave in and went. And even then, I had to wear something that wouldn't scream 'gay' so much in case I ran into some co-workers or something. I had to wear something that guaranteed no one would ever suspect I was gay: I wore black socks with white tennis shoes.

Going to the parade almost felt like the first time I walked into a gay bar. The first time I went to a gay bar, I drove around the bar fifteen times, around the same block, over and over, trying to psych myself into, you know, parallel parking. What? It was downtown Chicago and back then I lived in the burbs.

Before I went in, I had crazy visions of the bar having posts instead of bar stools to sit on; of seven feet tall drag queens with hairy arms; of old men coming up to me and pulling down my pants and sucking on my dick without taking their dentures out first. I was scared shitless. I learned later that scared shitless was actually a good thing, because getting your shit all over somebody's cock is just soo embarrassing. I had yet to learn to douche.

At least only gay people went to gay bars. If I ran into someone I knew there, we could hold each other under mutual blackmail threats to protect our 'straight' identities.

But the Gay Pride parade was a public event. People were armed with cameras like hookers were armed with crabs. Your face could pop up in some lesbian couple's slideshow along with their photos at the Wiccan/Summer Solstice/Monster Truck festival. I was afraid that WGN, the local TV station, would have a film crew there and inadvertently zoom into me with the caption "MEN WHO LICK EACH OTHERS' HAIRY ASSHOLES." I sweated bullets, looking frantically around to make sure there wasn't a film crew or lesbian close by.

But it was hard to stay guarded when it was plain to see that nobody was concerned about me; everybody was truly happy to be there and everybody was having fun. Even the straight guys mugged for the cameras and posed with some of the more flamboyant costumes. They were embraced despite their black socks with white tennis shoes.

Yesterday, my brother Peter, my identical twin--also gay--was on his company's float. His company, a large multi-national conglomerate, with their corporate logo prominently emblazoned, sponsored a float for their gay employees, providing a ton of free swag and samples to the crowds, which meant that every person and their greedy hands were trying to get free shit from somebody who looks exactly like me. Everybody pays attention when there's free shit, right Joe? I wasn't even fazed by the idea. I just wanted to make sure he saved me some swag.

I have come to realize that the Pride parade is a rite of gay passage, like the first gay Circuit Party or that first gay bikini wax, and that even though the thought is daunting, it is something every gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered person must experience at least once. You cannot imagine the sense of freedom, of exhilaration, of total immersion.

It's like, if you're ready to be seen by 500,000 people as who you are, then, I think you're ready to join the world. I think you're ready to be free.

It's no big deal Danny, really, I promise. I hope next year you'll be able to join the rest of us at the parade.

Or I'll hold you down and put blue eyeshadow on you.

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I AM QUEER - and you're a total fag. A Little Less Lonely - Once upon a time, my twin and I lived separate lives.

Mistaken Identity - Switching identities with my twin: a desperate fantasy. I AM The Evil Twin - Okokok, my secret identity is out, now read about why I'm eeeevil.

The Love Parade

"I don't know why you have to have a float with a giant, twelve foot long penis on it with fifteen guys, all in speedos, humping it to the beat of It's Raining Men," said my co-worker Jamie. "It's the Gay Pride Parade isn't it, not the Penis Pride Parade? I know some men are proud of the size of their manhood, but this is ridiculous."

"I'm all about sexual freedom," she continued, "I support gay marriage! I have been taking my son Alvin to the Parade every year since he was born. This year, he's four and I'm not sure that after this year, I can still take him to the parade, which is sad because I want him to grow up accepting the community that his beloved aunts Robyn and Dani belong to."

I looked around my cubicle to see if her exasperation carried over to the neighboring cubes. While I am out at work, I don't trumpet my fagginess by starting every meeting with some zingy appetizers and mojitos. My cubicle looks exactly like everybody else's in my department except for the dildo I use as a paperweight.

Everybody seemed to be enslaved by their monitors, which surprised me. I would've been standing next to whoever uttered the word "penis" to see what the fuss was about.

"But Jamie," I soothed, "this is our parade, this is what we want the parade to be. I understand that our straight friends may think that some of the people in the parade are overtly sexual, and maybe even downright disgusting, but it's us. Hey, I was totally appalled by the Smelts last year. God, won't they let men's capri pants go already? It's dead. Let it goooo."

"But a giant penis? That's practically pornographic!" she exclaimed. "If gay people want to be accepted by society, this is not exactly the way to grandma's heart. For the Gay Movement, it's like one step forward, two steps back."

"No, Jamie," I corrected her. "It's one step forward, two steps back, tap-tap-kick, then jazz hands," shaking my hands to illustrate. "Plus, I always thought of the Gay Movement as sort of sashaying, checking out the scenery and eventually getting to the party, rather than marching forward with blinders on."

"But why does it have to be about sex?" Jamie asked, "Why does it have to be the sex parade? Why can't it be the love parade? Alvin just loves his aunts Robyn and Dani dearly and has never known them to be anything other than being together. When I look at my friends, I don't see them having sex, I see their loving relationship."

"Have you looked in the bottom drawer in their bedroom?" I inquired slyly, "maybe that will change your mind about them having sex."

"Look," I said, "the parade is not for kids; It's not for people with narrow views; It's not for people who have strong body odor, although a lot of them manage to go to the parade and stand right next to me."

"The parade is going to have giant penises on floats. It's going to have bare-breasted women on motorcycles. It's going to have the local gay church float. It's going to have PFLAG. And it's going to have that damn fucking two-story Jewel shopping cart!"

"But I want to take Alvin!" She wailed, "I want Alvin to learn! Why can't there be a family-friendly parade during the day and the X-rated stuff at night?"

"Because society can't choose which part of us it likes and what it doesn't," I said. "I'm glad you're going to take Alvin this year, but maybe next year, you won't be able to take him, unless you're ready to answer some pretty hard questions, like why is a giant penis on a float bad? Or better yet, why is sex bad? Why can't we talk about it openly and in public? Why can't it be in a parade in the middle of the day?"

We left it there. I could see her honest consternation as she went back to her cubicle.

Jamie and her husband are taking four year-old Alvin this year to the parade, along with his favorite aunts.

I truly hope that she would bring Alvin again next year, and the next year, and the year after that.



Next: Day After Pride


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We're here! We're queer! Read about it:

Turnabout - Harriet interviews No Milk about Gay Rights and blogging. Why Change? - Tortured homos find their way back to heterosexuality. Pride - A Gay Pride Cartoon.

Catalyst - It's the 2004 Presidential Elections and I feel fine. Lucky - I was lucky to survive my tumultous teen years. Bill wasn't. The Gay Experience - Gay rights are fabulous and hard to contain.