They’re Not So Bad After All

It isn’t enough for me to say that I like gays. I like sleeping on couches; I like writing inappropriate comments on the memo line of personal checks; I like drinking the remains of my cereal milk directly and noisily from the bowl rather than tortuously spooning it out. I’m not quite sure if my fondness for gays is liquor on the same shelf as watching pets and children run into sliding glass doors (unless, of course, if it is simultaneously).

No, I love gays.

Typical Disclaimer from a Heterosexual Man:
I don’t love gays, you know, like that.

Specifically, homosexual men. No offense is meant towards lesbians; lesbians are okay, I suppose, but I don’t love them in the same way because their capacity for outrageousness is somewhat limited. As broad a generalization as it may be, lesbians seem to be either the lusty sorority sisters (who visit my dreams on occasion) or the beefy UPS driver or arm-wrestling champion (who, oddly, also visit my dreams on occasion). I don’t think I’m alone on this one; aside from the random porn enthusiast and other lesbians, no one really cheers for the lesbian floats in the parade. They just don’t have the pizzazz.

The gays, however, everybody cheers for the gays. Simply put, their floats are funnier.


Random Interjection from a Fictional (perhaps gay) Reader:
Gay and Lesbian pride parades are not for you to point and laugh. Moreover, your reduction of a celebration of gay culture to simply “funny” is both insulting and close-minded.

Editorial Response:
Scantily clad, grown men dancing (sometimes with headdresses) to Donna Summer (sometimes on stilts) and large, hairy men wearing assorted leather garments and spiked dog collars are funny.


The fact that gays are the only minorities that actively represents every stereotype in their own parades is not only funny, but damn commendable. Imagine if the floats in the Asian pride parade were efficient, but driven poorly and all looked exactly alike. There were no floats in the Black pride parade, only lots of singing and demonstrations of athletic prowess (all of which, in any event, were heavily bejeweled). All the floats, marching bands and cars in the Latino pride parade had to jump a fence in the middle of the parade route. I ask you, how am I not supposed to giggle a little when “Miss Gay Pride 2006” was a bare-chested man with chiseled abs? I didn’t crown him.

I guess I should specify even further to the outrageous gays. I love the Carson Kressleys of the world that snappishly tell us we look—or in many cases do not look—fabulous and often refer to themselves by the gender-specific nouns usually reserved for, uh, “real” girls. They seem only to feel in terms of love or hate, as in “I love that handbag” or “I hate those shoes,” having lost the capacity for moderate or lukewarm terms. Yes, the lispy gays. I love the gays that other gays seem to hate (or mostly dislike, if they’re not hypocrites).

Regular, less outrageous gay men fall in line with lesbians as far as I’m concerned. I’m more or less indifferent toward them in the same way I’m indifferent to other motorists on the highway; I acknowledge they’re there, but really don’t care where they’re going. The few gay friends I have are mostly in this category, despite my regular encouragement for them to jazz it up a bit.

While I wouldn’t say that I grew up entirely homophobic—nor would I say I’m comprehensively comfortable now—I didn’t develop an appreciation for those some call “queens” until some friends invited me to karaoke at a gay bar near my hometown. Despite having grown up in Southern California and being generally open-minded, I’d never had much interaction with gays or lesbians. Never one to turn down karaoke, I thought this would give me an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: I could determine if I was as open-minded as I thought I was around gay people and I could finally test if my version of Aha’s “Take on Me” was as good in public as it had always been in my head.

Once inside the mostly empty bar, I went through the (now ridiculous) process of looking at the people I passed saying, to myself, That guy likes other guys and I’m perfectly okay with that. With each of these reassurances and the comfort of vodka, I eventually focused more on enjoying myself and less on convincing myself that I was progressive and mature enough to mingle with homosexuals without saying “Ew, gross.”

The master of ceremonies for the evening was a gentleman whose description will require your patience. He was a middle-aged, white guy wearing an egregiously tacky Aloha shirt (ala Don Johnson), white shorts exposing much of his leg and loafers sans socks. It struck me as odd that, with such an ensemble, a snappy gay guy would opt to sport an ascot. As we passed him on our way to the patio, his ascot revealed itself to be a luxuriously full tuft of chest hair (I was wrong to question his accessorizing ability; needless to say, I was full of chagrin).

“We want to welcome you tonight,” announced South Park’s Big Gay Al incarnate, “to the hottest karaoke this side of the Rio Grande. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, look at all these beautiful boys parading in front of me! It’s like I died and went to West Hollywood.”

It was then that I regretted a series of decisions. Firstly, I’d worn a vintage camelhair blazer, predominantly to avoid criticism from judgey gays. Secondly, I’d ordered an Apple-tini, which—although intensely delicious—I would never order in public for fear of girls thinking I was gay (but, when in Rome…). Finally, I was the last beautiful boy in the parade. Any cheetah will tell you: always attack the last zebra in the group.

“Well, well, what have we here? You there. In the jacket. You. Are. Fabulous!”

I froze as if I’d been accused of stealing something. I felt trapped; my “friends” continued walking and left me there to fend for myself, awkward and afraid.

“Uhhh, thanks.” Please let me keep walking, Mr. Gay Man, I promise I’ll keep quietly to myself, my face must have screamed. He reached over and killed the music. Some part of me expected a lot of growling and a small, gay head to come out of his mouth and kill me… you know, fabulously.

“You’re straight, aren’t you?”

For the very first time in my life—and the only time since—I apologized for being heterosexual.

“Well,” he sighed disappointedly,”you’re no fun! Fabulous, but no fun at all.”

Somehow, I’d regained control of my legs and they led me to my group at the back patio. The patio was for smokers and had only a few tables and benches. There was a bouncer in the corner checking the ID’s of the gays coming in from the parking lot behind the bar. I squeezed in between a couple girls in our group on a bench and hid behind a curtain of cigarette smoke. A few minutes would pass before I was finally comfortable and talking to gays and straights alike.

I somehow got into a conversation with a guy in his mid-twenties about literature. I was an English major and he was in an American literature master’s program. He wasn’t effeminate, wasn’t dressed particularly well and didn’t have highlights in his hair or any of the other stereotypically gay features. Still, I assumed he was gay and was perfectly okay with it because we were talking about straight things, like books.

I understand that sounds horrible and ignorant, but I mean as opposed to discussing window treatments, red carpet fashion and Gucci handbags.

He didn’t compliment me on anything, ask about my personal life or make any physical contact. We were just two guys talking shop. He did most of the talking and often made excited gesticulations while describing plots, characters and authors. The beer ran out for both of us, so he offered to make the first bar run. You know, I thought, these gays seem like nice people. Of course, to be fair, that thought runs through my head most times strangers buy me drinks.

“So… pretty good conversation, huh?” asked the gay guy in my group that I’d met that night (and, it turned out, the reason we were at gay karaoke).

“Yeah. Interesting enough guy, I suppose. Knows a lot about books.”

“Good, good. Glad your meeting people. I just wanted to make sure you knew he was totally hitting on you.”

“No, he wasn’t. We were just talking about…”

“Where is he now?”

“Well, we just ran out of beer and he… he… uh…”

More disappointing than realizing he was right was realizing that he was hitting on me the same way I usually hit on girls. Even more disappointing was how generally pathetic I must have seemed to the girls I’d spoken to in bars about my favorite writers or European cathedrals or Impressionist painters. This explained much.

When my suitor returned with beers, I took a heavy gulp while I thinking of how best to break away. I opted to do what I’d seen so many girls do before: “Well, man, it was good talking to you. Take it easy,” (the only difference being that I felt obligated to pay for my drink). I tossed a five spot on the table before I fell back into the spot between the two girls.

A few drinks later, I finally found the courage for a rematch with the M.C. As I took up my song request, he was introducing the bar staff. “Tonight we have Jonathan checking your ID’s out front. God only knows, if Michael Jackson’s taught us anything, it’s not to mix our liquor with our little boys. Thank you, Jonathan. Michelle, our bartender… where are you, sweetie? Oh, there she is. She’s making all of your fabulous drinks. Remember to treat her nicely. And last, but certainly not least, we have Danny… guarding our backdoor,” he laughed a laugh that sounded more like humming (something like a hmm, hmm, hmmm) and, in his best deep voice, added, “as it were.”

I chuckled awkwardly as I placed my request on the speaker next to him. “Well, well, my little straight friend has a sense of humor. There’s hope for him yet. Let’s see what he wants to sing,” he picked up my card, “I’ll fly you to the moon all right, sweetie. Hmm, hmm, hmmm. Well, loosen up those vocal chords; we’ll have you up in just two shakes.”

Some of my friends were up before me, so we all crowded in front of the stage and I continued to get drunk. Within a few minutes, not only was I drunk, but completely at peace with my surroundings. I wasn’t scared of Big Gay M.C. anymore; in fact, he’d grown to remind me of some of my aunts.

“Up next we have Paco… Oooooooh, that sounds exotic. Come on up, Paco. I like saying that. Paco. Just rolls right off my tongue. Pah-Coh. Well, Paco here has promised to fly us to the moon. Sing for the gay people, baby.”

I sang Sinatra’s “Fly me to the Moon” (horribly, as per usual) directly to the M.C. and both he, and the crowd, seemed to enjoy it. Ever the showman, I did a little dance during the refrain which received applause from the crowd and squeals from the M.C. As I handed the microphone back, the M.C. put his arm around my shoulder.

‘My, my, haven’t we blossomed, Pah-Coh? Now you can run and tell all your little straight friends that the homosexuals aren’t so bad after all. Let’s give another round of applause for Paco. Paco, Paco, Paco. Hmm, hmm, hmmm. I love it!”

We left the bar soon after and I felt satisfied knowing that (on a small scale) the gay community and I had come to accept each other. Sure, perhaps we didn’t and still don’t agree on a number of things. Principal of which, of course, is that—no matter what they say—I will never agree that it is acceptable for men to get manicures and pedicures. It’s just not right.

I have since developed a greater appreciation of the contributions of the gay community. Moreover, I have come to love the hilarity of the outrageously gay man. Without him, heterosexual men across the country would have no one to help tell their girlfriends they were getting a little chubby. For this, and many other reasons, I’ve taken the advice of my big, gay M.C.

Seriously, fellas, they aren’t so bad.

That’s all.