Illustration by TNG's own Cathryn Chandler

Back in October I wrote up a field guide to the kind of fags that one will often run into here in Washington, DC. Periodically, I will be adding on to that list. Like today.
Before I went to see The Gossip in October I stopped by a friends’ house for a drink. I knew only my host and one other good friend we had in common. I had already been in a bad mood and couldn’t help but feel further annoyed when I reached my destination. It was full of well-dressed, attractive guys that were headed to Nellie’s later in the night — the kind of crowd whom I usually have nothing in common with. So I poured myself a gin and tonic that was stiffer than a Republican in a Washington Sports Club sauna and caught up on the latter friend’s recent trip to California. As the night went on, our host got more and more eager to go catch the show. As his initial efforts to rally the fruits proved fruitless, he resorted to shock tactics.

“Oh my god,” he yelled across the living room, “Lady Gaga is outside! Let’s go meet her.”

I rolled my eyes at this, because I’m snobby and predictable, and my host saw me.

“Ok, Zack,” he sighed. “Ladytron is outside. Does that help?”

I stood so corrected and have been in awe of this guy ever since. He is a rare specimen. He is a Charon Fag.

In Greek mythology, Charon is the ferryman of the river Styx. For a small fee he carries souls across the river that separates the world of the living from that of the dead. Without his services, one is doomed to wander the the water’s edge and wonder about the Elysian riches that lie on the other side.

In DC, The Charon is that special breed of fag that can comfortably cross between the worlds of mainstream and “alternative” gay without changing his fundamental self. More remarkably, he brings others with him. As the evolution of gay culture brings with it the increased and inevitable diametric opposition between all the different kinds of queers there are in this world, the services of a ferryman in skinny jeans and boatshoes might become increasingly valuable.

It’s easy to get locked into a set social routine. My unwillingness to go to gay events without the word “alterna” in the title (whether or not such moniker is deserved) is equally matched by the other side’s distaste for the same milieu. It’s fun to pretend that some day we will tear down those walls and braid each others’ hair  at a giant bar that’s fun for everyone, but it’s also fun to pretend that my cum tastes like Sprite. It’s much more viable to acknowledge our differences while relishing time spent with a person who can give us a break from the familiar.

The Charon I cite in the first paragraph is just one kind. There are other such creatures out there of different identity designations. Charons of different races, ages and gender identities. These ones are even more important. The bridges between the world of black and white queers, for instance, or cissexual and trans, can be slowly constructed when one person has the patience to guide the willing few across the waters underneath.

Or maybe all the Charon fags I know just have the most developed fun sensors. You double your chances to find fun parties, guzzle beer and look for dick when you don’t limit yourself to one scene. But whether altruistic or hedonistic, the Charon fag is also a mystery to me. I’ve ended up in my chosen camp through a long process of trial and error, and when I avoid certain scenes its because experience has taught me that we go together like a full bladder and a long car trip. So while I envy the Charon’s ability to enjoy himself anywhere, with anyone, I know that half of my time with him will be spent waving from the shore as he rows off into a neon, cosmopolitan mist.