gay schmay

the jury is out on this one although i'd expect to get life in the closet from my gay peers. in my head flicker out-takes of The Worst Cliche Images of Homos. they are worse even than those of some sicko radical born against. through my judgmental binoculars 'they' squeal, hiss, walk funny (quick tiny chinese steps) and perform outrageous 'flaming' gestures that sometimes amuse but most of the time drive me crazy. that is, unless they're my friends. if not, they're catalogued on my self-righteous altar, collecting judgement dust. oh no, i tell myself, this is not internalized homophobia, nor masked self-loathing. i LIKE myself. i like my queer, gay, poofter, flouncy, faggoty self. i can be that way, they can not or i won't like them. i certainly won't be attracted to them. this instant reaction rears it's ugly head like the pinkie finger in La Cage Au Folles, all by itself. i can't help it. i realize how dated this is, how dated i am. zeroing in on the parade float with the leather boys letting it all hang out of assless chaps. on the flip side are the on-the-street-homos I walk past here at home who are as hard to identify as the metro sexual straights in the what's-going-on-here local bar. i'm as often off with my gay-dar as on. however, when i walk up commercial street in P-town, it hits me all over again. there they are, the too-tanned, short-shorted shrieking pansies ogling anyone within eye-shot just to get attention. the elders (like myself) look over their glasses with impotent lust at the young, the cute and the out and proud as if they'd missed something back in the day. this makes me want to run, to take the New Years vow my friend Peter took back in '85 and 'go back in the closet' because he'd had it with the homos, the culture, the silliness and the emphasis on surface beauty, youth, ass... which would of course be the last thing any of us need: more hiding, more suicides, more beatings, more killings, more prejudice. still i wonder, are we people first, queer second? do i ask as a pre-emptive question of my straight friends if they're straight? is that the way they introduce themselves: 'hi. i'm Tom. i'm straight'. no they don't, there is no need. meanwhile the outrageous queen makes it known for miles how different he is. look at me. i'm here, i'm queer, i'm fabulous... but he deserves to, doesn't he? or she? deserve to be who they are, hell or high water, tutu or sleek couture, punk purple or tranny? come on already, girlfriend, get over your snotty self. don't beat around the bush. you're a fag. you always have been. your sexual orientation that took however long to admit to yourself, to your friends, to the world, is now your badge of honor, your cred, your artsy mystique. use it, baby. use it to seduce. 'weird homo voo doo' a kid once called it. don't pull that 'weird homo voo doo shit on me' he said. as if that would insinuate me into his pants. still, it baffles, all of it. because i long to just quiet down all the hissing cruising gesticulating steam and stares and just talk for a bit about anything besides movie reviews or clothes or who's doing whom. ok, i do all those things. so yeah, maybe i'm the most egregious example of the self-hating homo. but there you have it. c'est moi. i prefer the ambiguous bars where my predatory instinct feels at least in the murky pool of impossibility, possible. that conversation may or may not lead to intimacy but will at least spool out a thread of contact that does not necessarily lead to deed, but at least to connection. but what's up with that? my friend Danny (scorer of infinite boys) claimed: 'it's sex or love, baby', and not both inotherwords. so where am i? i guess i identify with the Beats, with Ginsberg where love finds a home in dark places, in friendship, in art. his affliction being his continuous, obsessive attachment to straight boys. i'm with you there, Allen, dark it can be. deep, dark and beautiful.