I’ll just rip off the bandage:  The New Gay is shutting down.   It’s been a fun ride over the past four years.  But the site grew so much and so quickly that our rag-tag group of volunteers couldn’t keep up with it.  After wrangling with this issue for a while, we decided it was time to close up shop.   So now, it’s on to other things.
Thank you to all of our volunteer contributors who have helped out over our run, and to all those who have read, commented, attended events, etc.
We’ll keep the site up as long as we can to act as a library of sorts, for all our old content that is still relevant to anyone questioning gay culture, but we won’t be producing any new content.

We have a limited supply of TNG T-shirts still available at a super discount of $13, priced to cover production and shipping costs.

For DC folks, Beat City will continue out from under the TNG banner.  Check us out on Facebook to keep in touch with your beers, queers and rock & roll.

http://www.facebook.com/groups/beatcity/

Any further inquiries about The New Gay can be directed to me at meichler@thenewgay.net.

Thanks again!

–Michael

Everyone dresses up like skanks.

It started to get really ridiculous in the 90′s and, now, it’s just gotten worse and worse.  The girls lead the pack when it comes to provacative outfits but, increasingly, the guys are following suit.  I wouldn’t have it any other way!

I live in Chicago which includes Boystown, the main gayborhood within the city, where every Halloween you can be certain to see an endless parade of male and female flesh popping out at all angles.  Some people find it obnoxious and annoying.  Bumping into an infinite number of 20-something trixies made up as Sexy Little Bo Peep, Sexy Strawberry Shortcake, Sexy Cat, Sexy Angel, Sexy Devil, Sexy Alice in Wonderland, Sexy Dorothy Gale, etc., etc. can be exhausting.  Maybe for some people, but not for me.  I truly enjoy staring at everyone looking like sluts because it just seems more natural and fun.  Plus, I’m a huge pervert so that kind of helps.

What makes Halloween truly impressive, to me, is what it unleashes within the male psyche.  It’s difficult to tell the difference between the gay boys and the straight ones.  Many girls’ boyfriends will go in drag and other “completely hetero” guys will appear in some suspiciously revealing costumes and will encourage being molested by their straight (enough) buddies throughout the evening.  And it will seem like a joke until the fondling continues on past the 20-second grace period and re-emerges throughout the evening.  Things can get weird.

“No homo”?  Well, not on Halloween.  Halloween these days has a very murky sexual fluidity to it and it’s completely fantastic.  Yes homo.

I hate calling myself a spiritual person because I tend to want to smack the shit out of spiritual people.  But I still have faint traces of spirituality (even typing that word makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit) and I recognize that Halloween serves as a time of literal and personal harvest, of memorial, and end-of-year reflection.  It also serves as a subversive death festival which our culture needs (we have some serious death-denial issues going on, especially in America).  I hate admitting it but I am a reflective person and autumn brings out the best (and worst) in me.

We Americans can only deal with a certain amount of reflection, seriousness, and darkness however.  Enough is enough!  So we turned our death festival into a fucked up fertility festival while we were at it.  It may be tempting to believe that Halloween is “meant for the kids” which it never truly was if you’re willing to scratch the surface–usually, in our culture, we take that out when we’re looking to explore something absurd while attempting to avoid the risk of embarassment.  Halloween may be a time for kids in some respects but, let’s face it, it’s also an excuse for adults to hang up paper skulls on their doors and parade around in kinky roleplay outfits.

Go out on Halloween, to any place of partying and adult congregation, and this will be brutally evident.  Cassie from Human Resources wants to show the world that she’d make a really saucy Laura Croft.  So here she is with countless Becky’s, Jennifers, and Brianna’s strutting around like we’re trapped in red light district sponsored by Walt Disney.  And all the hot and semi-hot guys want to wear hot pants and weird wigs.  I wouldn’t change a thing.

Is Halloween the time when we see the real you?  Are you trying to tell us that your secret self is actually a whorish-looking cyborg?  Maybe we should have known all along.

Whether you want to celebrate it as a candlelit bummer/mope-fest, a tacky excuse for rubber spiders, or as your one-night chance to wear fetish outfits and be an exhibitionist, All Hallow’s Eve is everyone’s best hope for personal expression.  I see it as insightful and honest.  But maybe that’s being too serious….

What does a Dom wear on Halloween?  This year I’m going as an animal cracker werewolf.  What that says about me is anyone’s guess.

–“The World I Used to Be Afraid Of” by Blanche

Some of the first gay films I ever saw dealt also with the subject of the early days of HIV/AIDS, films like Longtime Companion, Angels In America, and Love! Valour! Compassion!, and Jeffrey (this still continues today with viewings of The Witnesses, Parting Glances, and The Living End). I was a confused new teenager with cable and insomnia, so I would stay up and watch anything that had to do with homosexuality (with a particular fixation on gay men, even then I felt more akin to them than to lesbians). It just happened that most of the films I saw were a little before my time.

I am pretty fresh and sheltered when it comes to the history and realities of HIV/AIDS in our community; I wasn’t born until the early 90’s, have almost always lived in suburbia, and have never known anyone who has HIV/AIDs, let alone died from it.  According to Larry Kramer, that puts me in the league of the lazy, uneducated gays of my generation by default (after he admonishes me for calling myself queer).  However, I strive to be neither purposefully ignorant nor excessively fearful.

Dame, die sich die Hände wäscht by Gerard ter Borch, taken from Wikimedia Commons

As I try to enter the world of dating and sex, I find myself periodically asking the question, “Would I date someone who was positive?” “Would I still hook up with them after they told me?” Looking at the OkCupid and ManHunt profiles of cute guys who are brave enough to clearly admit their status in their profiles (because, it is hard to be upfront about things that are often considered “less than ideal”), it certainly doesn’t rule them out in my mind. If you want to be ruled out in my book then show an open dislike for intellectual pursuits or put something along the lines of “no fats or flamers” in your profile.

There is definitely still a lot of unfair treatment and generalizations made. I can relate in more than one way to being stigmatized for a medical issue and have it become an automatic disqualifier in people’s eyes. There is this judgment that you can see pass through people’s eyes, and often that appalling silence that follows or that damn “Oh…” followed by the silence and judgment.  I don’t have HIV/AIDS, so I cannot fully understand, but I’d like to think I can at least make an effort not to be prejudiced despite my unintentionally sheltered upbringing.

It is really interesting hearing what my peers think about HIV and people who happen to have it.  For the most part, it seems more like a punchline to them than anything else.  With the exception of some of the social justice types with their sights firmly set on Africa and Bono, it seems to have disappeared from the mindset of those around me except in the form of a joke or an eyeroll when adults lecture about the importance of protection.  Our thoughts seem so separate from the interpersonal side of things.  I wonder what their responses would be if I asked, “Would date someone who was positive?” If it is anything like the responses I hear from many people about the question, “Would you date someone who is transgender?”, then clearly we have some things we need to talk and think about these matters on a personal, human level rather than technical terms and afterschool specials.

Paraffin wax is a soft kind of wax that is most typically used during this kind of play.  Undoubtably, you’ve noticed how the material within those tall, cylindrical catholic prayer votives is soft and squishy, much different from upright table candles.  That’s paraffin: almost putty-like, pliable, and full of air bubbles.  This type of wax melts at a signifigantly lower temperature when compared to taper candles which are the upright, rod candles that fit into candle sticks and candelabras.  Paraffin wax is less painful upon impact with skin.  It causes a relatively mellow jolt of heat when it’s dripped or puddled on flesh.  It’s not a huge deal.  If your play partner/submissive has very sensitive skin or gets freaked out by wax application, then you need to be especially cautious and considerate.

There was one particular Master, who I would session with as a co-Dom, that was very passionate about wax application with paraffin candles.  He would take a number of religious votive candles, of many colors, and drip them all at different points on top of the submissive’s body.  This created a rainbow mess of swirling wax that was a play on sensation for the participant but, also, was humiliating and intimidating for them without causing any real sort of signifigant pain.  It was extremely cool to watch.  Afterwards, the wax is peeled off the skin followed by a shower to remove the remaining traces.  Maybe the skin is a little bit rosy afterwards but that’s about the extent of it for most people.  With paraffin, the Dom can apply a lot of wax, in large amounts, on the slave with ease and cautious safety.  It’s also extremely messy, requires a paint tarp (or something along those lines) to protect the space, it’s high-maintenance.  I’ve seen kinksters place Saran Wrap on top of exposed flesh before paraffin wax play in order to:

1.) keep the heat impact but

2.) avoid the stickiness/messiness removal if everything doesn’t end up peeling away easily

Another option is to put lotion on the skin to make the wax removal easier.  That’s always a good idea too but, obviously, it may require a shower afterward anyway.  Be creative and sensible.

I prefer to use taper candles (those upright, rod candles) when doing wax play.  Why? In my opinion, paraffin wax is kind of “cute” and doesn’t cause enough pain.  When I’m applying candle wax onto my submissive, I want it to be in precise, targeted bites of heat like falling needles.  To me, those puddles and splashes of paraffin wax are too messy and require a certain kind of idealized space to work within.  Plus there’s the need for a tarp.  What if I don’t have time to go to the store to buy a paint tarp?  I’m an extremely busy Dom with a tight schedule.  Cleaning gear after a session usually takes at least 30-45 minutes afterwards and I have enough stuff to do……

Taper candles melt in drips that, with a little bit of skill, can be aimed at very specific parts of the human body and in controlled quantities.  These are the kind of wax drips that cause jumps and a bit of dread for the submissive.  I like being able to count and control the exact amount of drips heading towards the slave.  Many drips for the brave souls, less drips for the more sensitive ones.  My favorite way to remove wax?  Ice.

No matter what kind of wax you decide to you use for your adventures, wax play should never be done around the head and eyes (of course) nor should it be used wrecklessly or to plug any orifices.  It’s strictly for the wide expanses of the body and the outer areas–think the back, the shoulders, the buttocks, the chest, the nipples, carefully with the outer genitalia, etc.

The other issue, clearly, is that you’re dealing with fire.  Don’t get too close to your slave’s body with the fire (unless you’re doing fire play which means that you’re highly experienced/skilled and that you’re submissive is fully aware and willing, etc.  We’ll save the subject of fire play for some other article…..).  Always keep the fire at a distance.  Don’t burn anyone’s hair or clothing (including yours).  Only do wax play if you’re 100% focused and lucid.  Don’t do it if you’re tired.  Once you’re finished always blow out the candles.  The best way to get good at wax play is to find an ethusiastic submissive and put in a good amount of practice.

I’m also not so forgiving of celebrities who use offensive language and follow with some sort of caveat about how their comments are ok because they support gay marriage ala The Millionaire Matchmaker’s Patti Stanger, or Kings of Leon’s quick decision to tell a gay man to get a manicure and buy a bra, followed with an “I’m sorry 4 anyone that misconstrued my comments as homophobic or misogynistic. I’m so not that kind of person” tweet.

In my experience, classroom teachers don’t tolerate language like that from students of any age. Where should our tolerance lie as adults? As a student teacher, I took off points for students who used curse words or offensive words in their fiction writing, in classroom discussion, I corrected them aloud.  Teachers help young people learn respect, develop socially acceptable habits and gain understanding of historical, social and literary contexts of modern times. They also restrict aggressive, violent or inappropriate behavior. Who does this for adults? The police might step in for violent behavior, but what about the smaller offenses? Should we  make (theoretical) citizen arrests? Should we take to the airwaves (tweet-waves?) every time we hear an unjust word thrown? Should we boycott celebrities? Should we confront our families?

Mel Gibson: King of Racist Tirades

What do we gain from speaking out?

Enemies and fans alike have jumped on the backs (or off the bandwagons) of Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Tracy Morgan for their racists or homophobic tirades. In some cases celebrities issue apologies – most likely because those fans pay the bills, not because they are truly sorry, or because they don’t actually agree with the offensive statements they made. Refusing to see the movies/buy the albums/ read the books of a person who has used offensive language sends a powerful message that ignorance or closed-mindedness will not be tolerated from anyone – but a lot of people think the two things are unrelated.  Do Mel Gibson’s racist tirades stop you from enjoying Lethal Weapon?

Digital courage Vs. face-to face courage

A lot of us replaced the tequila-courage of college with internet-courage of adulthood– even the most mild mannered folks might take the opportunity to speak out on an issue on Facebook or Twitter that they would never broach in “real life”- condoning a friend for reposting political or celebrity hate-speech, or calling out @Celebrity for being #homophobic or #racist on Twitter, but what happens in face-to-face situations? How do we react when a friend, colleague or supervisor comments about how “retarded” a call in a football game was, or that how “gay” it is that a buddy bailed on happy hour. Can we muster the courage to call out that sort of language face-to-face? Do our efforts make a difference?

What about Freedom of Speech?

While us liberal, PC, uptight, buzz-killers are out there reminding people that suggesting African Americans only eat fried chicken and watermelon is offensive, there’s a whole colony of commentators gathered around talking about Freedom of Speech. “What happened to the First Amendment?” they love to snarkily ask. These questioners are right – the government doesn’t have the right to restrict speech, but when you are a public persona (a politician, actor, musician, etc) whose career relies on the support, financial and other, of fans or voters – it might be wise to ensure that your Freedom of Speech doesn’t ricochet off your angry fans and hit you square in the face.  When an individual receives 1000 emails, or Facebook posts condemning their language or behavior, that’s Freedom of Speech, too, right?

A Focus on Education

Its easy for us to destroy someone’s reputation on the internet for offensive behavior (::cough cough:: Rick  Santorum), or to embarrass someone in a bar for using language that might not be PC, but its important to recognize that some people don’t actually know better. Sure, Santorum isn’t one of them – he earned his internet reputation for standing strong in his hateful views – but there are bound to be people who honestly don’t think that saying “retarded” is offensive if they aren’t talking about a person, or who think because their minority friends use certain slang words that everyone agrees with their usage. Think about it like our underpaid and overworked educators try to do with our kids – if there is a teaching moment, take it. Ask why the word or phrase was used, what that person thinks it means – explain the origin, or who it can offend. Sure its awkward, and can be embarrassing, but if there’s a chance to create a wizened advocate rather than a smeared reputation – its worth a try.

–

How sensitive are you to language? Have you ever boycotted a celebrity for expressing offensive views (intentionally or not)? Do you Tweet/comment on offensive language you encounter on the web? Do you correct friends, family, or colleagues when you think they’ve said something offensive?

Favored sports teams might be a suitable topic that inspires playful rivalry (especially if one of you doesn’t really care about sports), but, to some, the religious and political beliefs of your potential mate are defining characteristics in the calculations of your potential for success.

Light installation of Robert Stadler

Lets imagine:
As you share a drink and an appetizer with a person you met on OKCupid, the banter might be light and airy, the preferred age of cheddar matching, the eye-contact solid without being creepy. You might begin to feel something for the person sitting across from you, as they tell stories about the delights of being an accountant, or deliberate on the social scene during their undergraduate tenure at State School University. You both liked Lord of the Rings, but not as much as Harry Potter. You agree that Brad Pitt has become a real actor now, and that Mary-Louise Parker only gets more beautiful as she ages. Kite Runner was good, but Three Cups of Tea really loses its flavor once it came out that Greg Mortenson might be a liar.

It’s going really well.

After a couple drinks, your date informs you that they are having an awesome time, but can’t stay out too much later.

“My church is way up North, and I have to be there by 9.”

Or perhaps:

“I’d love to hang out a little longer, but I got tickets to a Glen Beck rally down-state, and my sister and I are leaving at 6 AM.”

Did this charming watcher of Weeds just mention a Churchal obligation? How can a person who enjoyed the magic of Harry Potter indulge in the pure evil of Glenn Beck?

Perhaps these comments don’t bother you at all. Maybe you are the kind of person who thinks that an individual’s political or religious views are just one tiny aspect of their whole being. You think, nothing they said was judgmental of my beliefs, just statements of theirs. Or are you the kind of person who sees differences in religion or politics defining factors in your relationships?

If you run in a liberal or conservative circle, perhaps you often meet people who have similar views to you, but what about online dating? I tend to think, on a lot of levels, that opposites attract , but are there certain ideological things that could keep you away from someone who otherwise you are really attracted to?

Would you date someone who was a passionate believer or supporter of a religious or political group that conflicted strongly with your own beliefs? Is this the type of information that should be divulged on the embryonic stages of a relationship?

“Search for meaning in sores

–“Sympathy” by Sleater-Kinney

I have the amazing power to make people’s heads explode.  How do I do it?  I can merely just out myself.  The problem is that this usually follows a bunch of questions that I really don’t want to answer (either because I’ve answered them before or they are put in an invasive/offensive way).  This superpower and the consequences of it could most likely primarily be traced to the audience of this information.

I may have mentioned before that I go to a pretty progressive and liberal campus.  You would think that I would take advantage of this fact by hanging around with as many understanding and informed students as I could.  Well…It didn’t really work out that way in terms of where I mainly haunt on campus (when I am not pacing up and down). Of all the places I could pick to spend my time, I picked hanging around with the Orthodox Jewish kids.

Now, this not to say that all Orthodox kids are sheltered and completely aware of LGBTQ identities, because that’s certainly not true.  Actually, my two best and most accepting friends on campus happens to be a straight, cisgender Orthodox guy and his girlfriend. Yet, on the whole, it hasn’t been a pretty picture.  There are people who have known me for almost a year, have heard people refer to me as “he” or as a guy, but still call me “she” or include me in statements such as “we have x number of girls right now”

There is now a well-known incident amongst my friends in which a person, being told that I was male-identified and that there were certain questions that are rude to ask. Well, what kind of questions am I suddenly ambushed with by this person at dinner? “So…What are you biologically?” I kid you not.  I nearly had a panic attack after that whole event because I was afraid of what kind of questions that I’d get from other people or what she’d try to get me shunned/ousted from being a part of the campus Hillel for religious reasons.  Luckily, she didn’t…But it is easy to tell that she seems quite uncomfortable with my presence.  Plus, I am rather sure her grandma gave me a weird look when her family visited recently (oh my…Did someone do the “Guess what I just met!” phone call home?).  Another, lesser-known incident (with a different person) involves being told at Shabbat dinner that Levi is a great, Biblical (and male) name and that she’d love to name her future son Levi…But then about 20 minutes later explicitly referring to me as “one of the women” that was there.

At this point, I really don’t try to correct some of these students when they get my gender identity and pronouns wrong. Partially because I don’t want a repeat incident, and partially because being the first trans person that someone has ever encountered can be pretty rough. There are some fellow queer students that keep their relationships an open secret around the same circles because they don’t want others to be uncomfortable.  So, I can’t tell whether or not they already know and just refuse to deal with it or if they are just going off my appearance and voice (which I have said before honestly does not “pass” as male very well).  It is an interest contrast to the rest of campus, where when they hear someone call me “he” enough times or a friend say “Levi’s a boy”, almost always tend to either correct themselves without fanfare, or profusely apologize for thinking/calling me otherwise.

Personally, I don’t want to be anyone’s representation for the trans community.  I don’t want to be the first person to try to explain the difference between gender identity and sexual orientation.  Honestly, I’d prefer not to have to clean up brain matter after I tell people that I’m trans and gay. But I guess that I may have to if I want my identity to be respected.

Lately, discussions that I’ve had with others relate to differerent interpretations of BDSM. Books and articles that I’ve read address this issue as well. A repeated theme, for whatever reason, keeps appearing.

What is BDSM? What isn’t BDSM? What rules do you have to follow in order to say “Yes, this is BDSM”?

Does it have to involve leather or some kind of kink-wear? Does someone have to be bound or restrained in some capacity? Must it involve pain or simulated “punishment”?

No one seems to agree on much of anything, which may be the one of the core strengths of the BDSM community. For many participants, the classic/stereotypical approach is taken in the sense that yes, indeed, there are the whips, cuffs, boots, and the rest of the predictable paraphernalia involved. But what if someone wants to do high heel worship on their Mistress, while she sits in a chair wearing a vintage wedding dress, followed by a good round of old fashioned fucking? Maybe that’s what a couple of my friends bragged about doing this weekend….(good job, you two–it sounds weird and strangely hot). And their question was: Was that BDSM? Was it kink? Or was it just sex with a couple of extra ingredients?

It’s all open to interpretation. Worship was involved. Fetishistic elements were involved. One person was in control while the other person played submissive. Then the control dynamic flip-flopped. No one, according to them, was tied up or spanked. Isn’t kink and BDSM under the same tent nowadays? Sort of?

I would argue that any sensual adventure, with experimental and prop elements involved, could be considered kink. Because kink is fetish. And fetish always goes along with BDSM. That didn’t used to be the case but now it is. Go to any dungeon party or kink event and see the wide variety and interpretations that are out there. Everyone sees things differently.

Who says that you need to have ropes and riding crops? There is no rule book. The old ways, which were overly pissy and restrictive, have crumbled in favor of a more inclusive defintion of “leather” (literal or figurative) and sadomasochistic control.

Do you want it to be kinky and taboo? Then it is. Perhaps what is kinky/taboo to you is weak and vanilla to a harder player but who cares? They don’t have to play along if they don’t like it. Every scene is yours for the making between yourself and your partner(s).

A common mode of thinking in the BDSM community nowadays is that the bigger the tent, the better the circus. I agree. The variety of ideas and perceptions of what encompasses BDSM and kink feeds into the strength of the community. The more shared ideas that are out there, the richer the feast. The more you are exposed to and understand, the better off you are. For some people, BDSM means heavy leather and hardcore abuse. For others, kink play may mean a little bit of exhibitionism, a wedding dress, and some high heels. Why not?

If you want to get very technical and specific, then yes there is a difference between fetish and S&M but less and less people seem to care anymore. To me, that’s progress. This all-inclusiveness has allowed the BDSM community to continue to grow as the years go on.

Don’t ever believe that in order to go to a kink event, that you need to be head-to-toe in traditional bondage gear. If you don’t want your Master or Mistress to tie you up, then you’re no less worthy a slave. If punishment, in no way, involves spanking for you then you’re not a weak submissive–it just means that you follow your own interests. You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. Traditions are meant to be smashed and rules are meant to be broken.

The BDSM culture? It’s yours. Redefine it to your own tastes and fantasies. The notions of kink, leather, fetish, and S&M are not sacred and fixed. If they were, that would completely defeat the purpose of transcendence.

I think that it’s impossible for the kink community to weaken by variety. There will always be those strong, heavier players (along with the lighter players) present to keep things leaning towards the dark and mysterious. Like a gene pool, the more varied the strains, the healthier the tribe is.

Submission by TNG contributor Joe Varisco

Over the past two months there has been a rise in organized, often violent, resistance and riotous activity. The true cause is not something we can immediately identify and therefore should hesitate in pointing any fingers or instituting reactionary policy. The worst result of this displaced anger and frustration among the youth is perhaps an increased gap in any form of productive dialogue. In both the reactions abroad and at home the press releases and public statements sound more like chiding parents berating their children for misbehavior and punishing them by taking away their privileges, a grand “grounding” of a generation. Instead it might be more productive to explore the roots of this misbehavior or at the very least acknowledge that there is a growing chasm of disparity.

For myself and for other members of my generation there is a loss of direction. Having followed the routes to adulthood, employment and career success as mapped out by older generations many of us are in a state of compounding confusion. Now as adults we are made responsible to manage our situation without much experience or resources to rely upon or guide us. In previous generations, when faced with similar uncertainty and desolate times unrest was also had and some individuals took to organizing a call to address the need for social and cultural changes. Only this time a demoralized generation’s skepticism expresses a fear that perhaps it is not possible for any actual change to occur. We are missing that voice to tell us:

“Listen, we’ve got some serious change coming our way. So please stop rolling around in your own apathy and get off your fuckin’ ass! What was that? Sorry? You’d rather stay home and watch the whole thing burn from the comfort of your couch and computer screen? If you want to see something different, make it happen!”

A symbol of this apathy is perhaps best quantified as a disenfranchised generation of graduates and unemployed sitting at home and developing an ironic relationship to the humor and idiocy of entertainment in the form of reality television. This allows us to sit in a place of satisfying criticism, meditating on these repetitious roles within the current system all the while laughing at the casual demise of integrity, both of the television show’s subjects, the systems that created them and ourselves. Yet, now the irony has turned, has become perverted.

Others of the same generation on the other side of the world charge ahead with impassioned, vigorous and principled uprisings for similar reasons to my generation’s own discontent: broken social promises, paralyzing student loan debt, debilitating unemployment and a distinct sense that we have lost a voice in policy and government to facilitate change. However, my generation instead chooses to become the very agent for the continuation of the status quo. We use subversive language to indict these dilapidated systems, but can only fit in action between rounds of happy hour. Our fundamental behavior is based on idling, distraction and entertainment. We secure a bubbled life, which replicates the irony we so satisfyingly guffawed at from our now worn in cushioned seats in front of the screen.

Now the streets of neighboring London are burning. To not have heeded the importance of that first wave of messages from Tunisia to Egypt to Libya to Bahrain to Syria to Yemen, even in China, Saudi Arabia and Iran, although instantaneously snuffed out, to all the nations and people’s who are fighting back and organizing, who are repairing wounds in the streets and whose hearts are encased with steely conviction, is a deplorable surrender to passivity. Or as Chris R. a NYC editor for The New Gay put it recently, “It’s difficult, when reading and seeing coverage of the riots in England, to not see a negative of our own pacification Stateside.” The failure of holding our media, government and other social institutions accountable is nothing less than holding ourselves accountable.

In London, for the second time this year after anti-cuts rallies and pulsating resentment with government austerity measures, something has snapped. The Tottenham Riots are waged by the greater middle class and minority communities and it’s response however chaotic, was relentless. The UK Office of National Statistics most recent report shows that youth groups ages 16-24 now make up 20.4% unemployment throughout the country. An atmosphere that breeds perceived random reactionary behavior is a signal of how ripe society is for change and in this case, regardless of a lack of clear ideological framework, should cause intellectual pause.

Waiting for a satisfactory political response to the U.S. Bureau of Labor & Statistics and the nauseating outcome of the debt-ceiling compromise cuts has now become the fertile grounds for aggressive anti-social behavior. There may be something more to this than a festering infection of economic and social malaise spreading into the streets. There may be something more to this than meaningless acts of violence that have been quietly birthed and nurtured by a frustrated, resistant, and increasing turmoil mirroring the effects of greed and violence seen at levels of policy and policing of our governing bodies. There may be reason to consider what this means. Continuing this progenitor state of disciplining disobedience will only ensure an absent consideration of progressive solutions with my generation resorting to a dismissal of culpability and instead remaining inside their own bubbles. Change? Never mind, did you see that funny video on YouTube? Never mind, pass the bowl. Never mind, lets look at some porn. Never mind: update, blog, tweet, text all the menial details of our everyday lives into the void.

The recent flash mob riots popping up across Philadelphia have garnered reactionary language similar to the UK’s from its political leadership in a crackdown on all youth. As of Friday 12 August 2011 Philadelphia Mayor Michael A. Nutter instituted tight curfews and exalted, “I don’t care what your economic status is in life, you do not have a right to beat somebody’s ass on the street.” Mayor Nutter continues, indicting parents and deferring to stereotypical rhetoric as the cause to African-American youth unemployment, which in his opinion is the cause of, “…walk[ing] into somebody’s office with your hair uncombed and a pick in the back, and your shoes untied, and your pants half down, tattoos up and down your arms and on your neck, and you wonder why somebody won’t hire you? They don’t hire you ‘cause you look like you’re crazy.”

Instead of opening a forum to discuss how the current cultural atmosphere provides the grounds for violent activity to take place and how we all, government, parents, youth, etc. play an active role in being responsible for the current state of discord, Mayor Nutter downplays the events. Nutter employs similar measures as Prime Minister David Cameron who recommends, “Working with the police, the intelligence services and industry to look at whether it would be right to stop people communicating via [social media] websites and services.” Though it would seem that a larger big brother hand drawing an invisible cage around social media, limiting people’s ability to organize, might only insight further resentment. It might be valid to remember the words of President Kennedy, “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible, will make violent revolution inevitable.”

But, for those others, those that refuse to believe the pronunciation: “Change is dead, long live Dysphoria!” For those who disagree with the tactics of looters and violent rioters, but who are troubled by something greater than the acts themselves. The “If there comes a time for change” is much closer to “When the time comes for change” and this serious change creeps inevitably forward regardless of our participation, but the outcome will likely be even less favorable.

It is time now to get up, get informed, get involved, and start teaching our limbs to move again. Do not allow ourselves to be completely crushed or demoralized. Remember we, here, together and now have all the tools and resources needed in one another to have our voices heard and make any kind of change possible. Let us begin discussing what those changes can be, what they mean, why we want them and then how can we go about implementing them. Do not be a whimper, be a fucking roar! But please, at the very least, be present.

There are roughly two sorts of offensiveness in this world: that which is intended and that which is unintended. In some ways the intentional offensiveness is easier to cope and contend with. If a person understands that what they do or say is offensive, even if they do it anyway, at least they are living in the same universe as you. They know that there are certain things that will push your buttons, and even though they have chosen to go ahead and push, they at least acknowledge that the buttons are there. It hurts to be the intended target of hurtful actions or words, but there is some degree of comfort in knowing that you’re starting from a common ground, and that you know where you stand with the offender.

Far worse in some respects is the offense which means well, because it doesn’t understand what has upset you. The person who offends unintentionally has missed something fundamental about the way in which you understand the world. The unintentional offender has made certain assumptions about you which are disturbing, or has a very different take on what is or is not appropriate which is discomfiting, or sees an entirely different reality from that in which you live, which is scary and isolating. Though the pain of being an intentional target is absent, it may be replaced by a more fundamental fear: that one of you doesn’t belong.

Now, if one was to advise the offended party not to lash out in anger, or not to hold on to or dwell on the feeling of offense, that is a different sort of counsel than not to be offended. Releasing hurt feelings nondestructively is simply good self-care. But sometimes it is also good self-care to allow oneself to be offended, especially when the offense was unintentional. Not allowing a bully the satisfaction of getting your goat, that’s one thing. But if, for example, a habitual racist makes a racist comment, not realizing that their speech constitutes racism, is it not appropriate, or even imperative, that one be offended? The same holds for homophobia and sexism. It is, indeed, sometimes the expression of offense which drives social change on the ground. If enough people are offended by unacceptable attitudes, those attitudes tend to fade as people become aware of the hurtful nature of their words and assumptions.

Is there such a thing as being too easily offended? Certainly there is. But who is to say where that line should be drawn? Being too easily offended means taking offense where it is inappropriate, where nothing is in fact offensive. What exactly should be the metric of such an assessment? Who has the right to say that a comment is not racist or that a behavior is not sexist, to draw the line between compliment and harassment? These are complicated questions to which I think no one really has a definitive answer. More often though, what is problematic is not the offense taken, but the way in which a person chooses to express that they are offended. It is important to note is that offense is not synonymous with vindictiveness. I am offended when certain folks insist loudly and persistently that I need to be paired up and married to a man as soon as possible. I am offended by the sexism and heteronormativity of their assumptions. Does it surprise me given the age and cultural demographic of most of the folks in question? Absolutely not. Will I respond by being nasty to them? Of course I will not. In many cases I will not even bother trying to explain that I find their well-intentioned sentiments offensive. To do so would likely be futile given the cultural milieux. However, having the cultural and emotional vocabulary to express offense, even merely to oneself, is far healthier than dragging oneself through a world in which one feels alien and unwelcome, internalizing and not allowing oneself to feel offended because the person who cannot or will not accept or acknowledge difference really meant well when they suggested that you should marry the creepy guy who won’t stop hitting on you because you’re getting old and every woman needs a husband before she’s thirty.

Offense needn’t mean anger, though sometimes anger is appropriate. Usually offense is a function of frustration, and usually it goes beyond the individual at whom it is directed. Insult is personal. Offense, more often, is cultural, and a reaction to an indication that the speaker’s worldview doesn’t include you or people like you. Sometimes, taking offense, whether it is expressed to the offensive individual or not, is an essential part of self-acceptance. This is who I am, and I damn well do belong in this world, whether you see me or not. I am not invisible, and I will not make myself invisible so as not to disturb your outmoded paradigm. As I’ve said before, I’m here, I’m me. I’ve got to get used to it… and so you’re gonna have to do the same. Cause I ain’t going away.

Check out some highlights from this week’s content:

In Ideas:

• Gella takes on privilege.
• Student Driver tells us what annoys her about a recent date.
• Mater Aiden really loves bondage.
• Levi is going through some trauma and is working it out.

In Culture:

• Rohan banged out jams this week.

In Giveaways:

• DC – Girls are hitting the 9:30 Club
• DC – Cute husband and wife duo Mates of State are @ 9:30 Club
• DC – Peter Hook (ex-Joy Division and New Order Bassist) banks off his name and ruins any intentions of goodwill with his Closer tour @ 9:30 (all that being said you might as well see this because it is the closest thing you’ll get to a Joy Division concert ever.)
• Want TNG to help wrangle cool, free stuff for your city? Hit us up at advertising@thenewgay.net and we’ll see what we can do.

Alright TNGers have a good weekend and be sure to check our local section for events happening in your area.

By Russss, taken from Wikimedia Commons

“I’m so tired, sheep are counting me
No more struggle, no more energy
No more patient and you can write that down
It’s all too crazy and I’m not sticking round”

–”I’m So Tired” by Fugazi

There is this intense feeling of numbness and exhaustion in the days following a horrific event in a family (or family-like circle of friends,) especially when one hasn’t really been sleeping anyway. The headache that I had for a week probably wasn’t helping to cure the numbness and exhaustion either. But at least now I have classes as a reason to force myself to go to sleep in order to be mostly functional.

Being away from home is probably a blessing and a curse in this situation. The blessing is that I no longer think about it every single day, because I have to focus on other things like classes and interacting with people. It is a curse because I feel out of the loop with that is going on, am not physically around to be helpful anymore, and most worrisome of it all, I have no idea whether or not I’m still a powder keg of emotion and rage. Is it still going to hit me at some random time that this traumatic and ongoing thing happened? What will happen when it does?

I honestly don’t know how the rest of my family is currently coping, everything seemed really normal after initial event. Quiet, but it was relatively normal. It confused the fuck out of me, but I tried to go along with it. Now that I am away from my family, I can’t look to them to see the correct way to act about things…I’m essentially on my own when it comes to this. Then again, I feel roughly the same about my transition…And I’m barely handling that well. With the forcing back into socialization through returning back to campus, my ability to deal with both trauma and the daily (and increased dysphoria) is compromised. I feel like the walking dead, but am also horribly hyper-aware of a lot of things. It is a really odd feeling, kind of creepy and unnerving in a way.

I know there is a road to recovery; I’m just trying to find out what it is and how it will work out for me. How have you all coped in these kinds of situations?

You think of people tied at the feet, knees, wrists, and elbows on a bed.  Or maybe you think of someone sexy bound to a chair.  Chances are that the ropes look like something that you’d find off of a ship since the the ropes typically used in rope play tend to be white or black, mid-width synthetics. When it comes down to it, BDSM kinksters can be surprisingly traditional.

I like to use ropes during sessions too (sometimes) but I favor stronger absolutes.  I’m an impatient person.  If a bondage arrangement takes me longer than three or so minutes to create, I probably won’t be interested.

My idea of bondage stems from cartoons, action films, and 1940′s film noir.  Those images established a quick, ultra-functional approach to tying someone down.  It was ugly, useful, and done immediately as would be the case if someone was actually abducted to be bound since, naturally, there would be an element of rebellion and struggle involved.  When I’m sessioning, I love to feel that the bondage is relatively plausible meaning that the captive most likely wasn’t asked if he or she would be kind enough to stand just so while the abductor took their sweet time to immobilize them.

I love metal, locks, and straps.  You don’t argue with them, you can’t slip out of them, and they won’t accept fussiness.  They’re either there or they’re not.  The lock is either in place or it isn’t.  Chains, especially, are quick, dirty, and functional which is exactly how I like bondage play.

The only thing that the Master or Mistress of the scene needs to be aware of is making sure that the correct keys to the locks are always within reach.  Lost keys can lead to bad situations, obviously.

I love the sound of chains clinking and clunking when binding a slave up.  It establishes a faintly medieval vibe and pushes that aura of inescapablility and punishment.  Chains are immediately associated with authority, access, and metalic strength.  If it’s man vs. chain, you know automatically who will win.  None of us are Superman.

Pet stores are the best due to the fact that their chains are pre-cut to reasonable, workable, and appropriate lengths for BDSM play.  Their short chains and long chains that are neither too short or overly long.  Hardware stores come in close second and are perfect if you find yourself desiring very specific lengths.

Everyone likes their bondage to reflect their unique tastes. Everyone has their own ways of doing things–just like making coffee.  BDSM is the same.  To me, nothing is more perfect than the sound of a riding crop hitting soft flesh immediately followed by the jangle of metal links, creating a classic combination of sound textures that are instantly and universally recognizable.  Plus, I know that when I want to capture or release a slave, I can do so in no time at all which is ideal for an impatient Master like myself.

And, with chains, is there any opportunity for the slave to escape?  Nope, not a chance.  The submissive if forced to have faith that their Master or Mistress will be relatively merciful…

1. Asking me out for a same day dinner. Sure, once I know you, last minute is awesome, but for a first date? Don’t make me feel like I am a fill in for a plan that fell through.
2. Tell me that it’s super casual jeans and t-shirts attire. I don’t date like that. I don’t do jeans and t-shirts in general. I do pencil skirts, I do slacks. This to me just translates to “I’m lazy and can’t force myself to dress nicely for you, so rather than feel badly about my attire, I’m going to tell you to dumb it down too.” Brown shoes with black slacks and black shirt, really?
3. If you ask me where I want to eat and I offers three choices, don’t make counter suggestions because you don’t like mine. If you make it to a second date, then you can take me to one of those places, but the chances aren’t good if you make me feel that my choices and opinions aren’t good enough for you.
4. Tell me not to rush, but when I am ten minutes later than expected due to the September 1st student U-Haul migration, do not text me every couple of minutes to tell me how hungry you are and that you are going to have to run to the conveinance store for a snack. A snack? Really? As if he was LITERALLY about to die of starvation.
5. Tell me you can’t have a cocktail because it is a “school night” and you are a light weight. My ex fiancé was a raging shit show of an alcoholic, so I don’t want that type of drinker, but loosening up with a few cocktails and flirting is good stuff. Pencil skirts, stockings, and some Basil Hayden is a sexy way to spend a night.
6. Spend the entire time telling me about your ex-fiance who called off the wedding after the refund date, and your subsequent rebound relationship with the emotional abuser whom you fell in love with. Oh yeah, and your therapist… he thinks you only like damaged women.
7. Brown shoes with black slacks and black shirt? Really?

This is why dating sucks. This is why dating at MY age sucks. I shouldn’t have gone that night, I should not have said yes. The same hour Impatient Eater emailed me about dinner, Type Geek texted me about the offer his bosses just put in front of him. A Senior VP position. His own office… in San Francisco. Funny, no one ever talks about San Francisco, it never comes up in my life, until it does. The past 5 days have been unbearable as everywhere I turn, the voices say San Francisco. Customers, strangers blocking the sidewalks, new flat mates, fellow bloggers, even the internet. I can’t escape it, I can’t hide from it.

I canceled the rest of my dates for the next couple of weeks and planned a trip to NYC for the September 11th memorial. I was there ten years ago, in my office, watching the television in the boardroom with my colleagues as the second plane hit. Ten years. I want to wander the city alone this weekend and think about who I was and who I am and what it all means.

The game of who is more oppressed is a complicated one. When intersectionality is taken into account, questions of identity are more complicated than black or white, gay or straight, Christian or not. Being of a majority group in one aspect of one’s identity does not preclude minority status in another, and social minority is not always a numerical minority. Minority status may be visible or virtually invisible, concealable or not. Some are able to pass or to assimilate to minimize the stigma they will bear in mainstream society, others cannot. Still others are unwilling to so.

In was not very long ago that assimilating, passing, was part and parcel of the American dream. Everyone wanted to be white and upper-middle class. Everyone wanted a suburban house with a yard and a dog. It was only whackos, bohemians, radicals, who sought to assert their distinctive cultural or ethnic identities. Very often these cohorts were made up of the discontents who were, for whatever reason, because of their skin color, bone structure, deeply ingrained mannerisms or accents, unable to pass, unable to disappear into the white suburban landscape. Black folks, Jewish folks, queer folks, and any number of other cohorts were excluded from this idyllic vision of the perfect American life. In time, things changed, and exclusion was limited to dark-skinned Black folks, People who were “too Jewish,” queers who couldn’t hide. If you were lucky and could pass, could be mistaken for White Protestant Anglo-Saxon, or at least toned down the distinctions of your culture so that it sort of resembled the norm, you did.

How things have changed. There is still discrimination, exclusion, assimilation, passing, but the new trend it seems is to vociferously claim the status of as many minorities as one can get away with. There are even those who seek to claim that the dominant White Anglo-Saxon Protestant cohort is an oppressed minority. Everyone wants to argue that their lot is, or has been, or should be in theory, one of hardship because whatever cohort they belong to is an oppressed minority, or was. No one, it seems, wants to claim privilege anymore. It doesn’t stop anyone from taking advantage of these privileges; just the opposite, in fact. They are taken as a deserved reward for the perseverance over culturally imposed hardship.

My skin is white. Because of this, I enjoy a certain privilege in society that dark-skinned folks do not. I am well educated. Because of this, I enjoy a certain privilege that folks without access to education do not. Because of these things, I do not experience the sort of systemic discrimination faced by the folks who do not share these qualities, which are the result of nothing but accidents of my birth. I am also a religious minority. I am also a sexual minority. I also live below the poverty line. I am also a woman. These are areas in which I do experience a certain degree of discrimination and invisibility. These factors do not, however, erase the privilege of being perceived as white and well-bred.

It gets even more complicated, though. Within each area of minority, there are in turn minorities and majorities, oppressors and oppressed, privileged and discriminated against. Within the Jewish world, I am of Eastern and Western European heritage, which is the dominant ethnicity of American Jewry, and the privileged class of Jews in Israel. In that minority, I am of the majority, the privileged, the oppressor class. Within the queer world, I am bisexual, dominant in numbers, but invisible and discriminated against culturally and institutionally. There, I am a minority of a minority. The analysis could go on ad infinitum.

Ultimately, where does all of this posturing get us? Well, what I think most of us hope it gets us is off the hook. None of us wants to be implicated as an oppressor, or even as one of an oppressor class. It’s always safer and easier to identify as, and with, the oppressed innocent, to divert the accusatory pointing finger away from us and our ancestry, until you’d think there was no such thing as privilege. We all know that there is, we just don’t want to ever think of ourselves as benefitting from it.

The more courageous thing to do, I think, is to step up and own your privilege. Recognize, and acknowledge, and say out loud “I am white, and I don’t worry about being profiled.” “I am straight and I don’t think about my right to marriage and children, or worry about being bashed.” “I am a man and I don’t worry about being raped.” “I am upper/middle class and don’t have to worry about where my rent/next meal is coming from.” “I am educated and have opportunities that the uneducated never dream of.” “I am able-bodied and don’t have to wonder if the places I want to go are accessible, and I never think about curb cuts.” It is surprisingly empowering. It also opens our eyes to a world outside of ourselves. If you recognize your privilege, you can see better where injustice lies, and just by seeing, we move a step away from being a part of the problem, and a step closer to becoming a part of the solution.

In Ideas:

• Walter’s biological clock is ticking – but will he give anyone the time?
• Alex Testere takes his cruising underground
• Gella doesn’t get tongue-tied over language
• Jean reality checks reality television

In Culture:

• Rohan gets cozy with two different Sleeping Bags
• Topher likes his FX programming doggy style

In Giveaways:

• DC: Sweater Set Sideshow tickets
• NYC: Erasure tickets
• Want TNG to help wrangle cool, free stuff for your city? Hit us up at advertising@thenewgay.net and we’ll see what we can do.

Reality television.

When MTV’s  The Real World began its edited broadcast of 7 strangers residing together in a house in 1992, it was clear that their actions would leave the world of televised entertainment changed forever.  The intimacy, the honesty and the grit were impossible to recreate in small screen fiction, and the viewer addiction was dangerous.

Fast forward 20 years and it’s impossible to click through even a few television channels without landing on a reality show. In fact, the variety has increased to a level where we don’t even think of the shows as being of the “reality” genre – they are just TV now. There are still “sharing a house on camera ” shows like The Real World and Big Brother,  but there are also “get help” shows like Intervention and Hoarders, “warning/encouraging bad behavior” shows like 16 And Pregnant,  as well as animal shows, wedding shows, buying/selling house shows, survival shows and plastic surgery shows. There are even shows with no detectable premise (Keeping up with the Kardashians).The list is endless. Today, it could be said that getting your own reality show is one form of Making It in America.  And if that’s true, maybe this trend has brought one gift to the gay community – a slow yet steady increase in visibility.  Gay reality stars have been making a serious impact on visibility of LGBTQ issues, and maybe even acceptance as they stream into American households every night.

The beginning of this impact can be traced to The Real World’s third season castmate Pedro Zamora. The openly gay and HIV positive Zamora brought LGBTQ issues and AIDS awareness into millions of American homes in the early 90s, a time when we were still not talking about openly about homosexuality and certainly not AIDS.  Diagnosed HIV positive when he was only 17, he auditioned for the cast of the show intentionally to spread more information about AIDS awareness. Zamora passed away from HIV related illness just days after the final episode of the season was broadcast. He was 22.

Unfortunately, not all LGBT representatives can be as admirable as Zamora. Sometimes reality shows reinforce negative stereotypes, like Patti Stanger’s attempt to pair up a gay millionaire on Bravo’s Millionaire Matchmaker (read AfterElton’s POV and AfterEllen’s POV on this episode) or LOGO’s The A-List which features a cast of selected stereotypes of gay men, and, as the Washington Post commented in 2010, doesn’t make a great social study but feels more like depressing voyeurism.

More often in recent years, a reality show might feature participants who just happen to be gay, thereby helping to normalize homosexuality. On TLC’s Baby’s First Day a lesbian couple is featured celebrating the birth of their child.  Gay couples get married on wedding shows or buy houses on house hunting shows. (Look honey! Those gays like bamboo flooring, just like us!”)

We have a revolving door of gay competitors on shows like Project Runway, Top Chef, America’s Next Top Model, The Amazing Race, and even a few on American Idol. These shows do a lot to normalize LGBTQ folks. Their sexual orientation comes second to their design ideas, knife skills, vocal talent or travel smarts. Americans root for them for these talents, and maybe sometimes forget that they aren’t hetero. They aren’t gay chefs or gay models – just chefs and models.

We still don’t have a same-sex couple on the US version of Dancing with the Stars (they do in Israel), which is broadcast into 10 millions homes a week, but the cast might be ready for it.

The popularity of reality TV shows might be a result of a lack of creativity of TV execs, our own creepy desire to peer into someone else’s lives, or our desperate wish to feel better about ourselves by focusing other batty people, but they might also be a subversive tactic in the LGBTQ fight for normalcy.

What are the best and worst representations you have seen of LGBTQ folks on reality TV?

Here I am, a self-identified bisexual woman, writing for The New Gay. The New Gay is intended to be for all of us, for the LGBTQIAetc. folks who may not fit the narrow or stereotypical categories that the word “gay” often conjures in our societal mind, both within and outside of the LGBTQIAetc. communities. The word “gay” is, of course, a loaded one. Gay means many different things to different people. For some, it is an umbrella term encompassing much of the spectrum on sexuality which diverges from “straight.” For some, it is very specific, meaning “exclusively homosexual” applying to men or women. Some people prefer not to use the term “gay” in relation to women, preferring the word “lesbian.” All of these labels are both very political and personal. For some, gay is a measurable element of a person’s makeup: a person may be more or less “gay” depending on any number of factors, from their “level of attraction” to their own gender to their taste in clothes or music.

The term “bisexual” or “bi” is similarly loaded, if not even more so. Bi carries many negative connotations which we who identify as bisexuals have battled for a long time. Someone may be accurately and honestly described as bisexual if they have any attraction to more than one gender. Anywhere along the spectrum that is not exclusively hetero- or homosexual may be described as bisexual. Recently, I heard someone in a conversation speculate that a certain individual might be “gay with a touch of bi” or “straight with a touch of bi.” When I called him out on it, he attributed the terminology to Dan Savage. These sorts of descriptors enter highly problematic linguistic ground, since the categories which one attempts to describe with this language fit solidly within the range of what it means to be bisexual… actually bisexual.

Of course, every person is free to identify as they wish. As I said, all of these labels may be very politically loaded, and it is a very personal decision how one wishes to label oneself, if they wish to label themselves at all. A person may have attraction to the same gender and choose not to identify with the label “gay” because the word carries certain implications and connotations from which the person wishes to distance him or herself. Same with bi. Same with straight or queer or trans or any other label that isn’t purely scientifically descriptive. Some prefer the idea that labels are for soup cans, not for human beings, that the attempt to label or identify at all by these loaded descriptives reduces their sense of self, or the sense others will gain of them as individual, living, dynamic, and fluid people.

Others may see such reluctance as cowardice, as a betrayal of the groups with which such an individual may potentially identify and ally, especially for purposes of advocacy. To a certain extent, the fear of these groups is not unfounded. Public advocacy relies to a large degree on numbers of people identifying with the group being advocated for. Every woman who is attracted to women but refuses to identify as a lesbian is one potential member lesbian activists lose from their ranks, from the number of those for they can claim to speak. Every self-identified lesbian with some attraction to men, or self-identified gay man with some attraction to women who refuses the label “bisexual” is in a sense lost from our movement, and is in a sense complicit in the negativity attached to the term. Distancing is, after all, often indicative of, and easily read as, distaste. The act of taking on, casting off, accepting, or refusing labels, while very personal and, in a sense, relevant only to the individual, is also a way of choosing sides, of declaring or refuting allegiance.

And so, there is a dilemma. The highly personal may have highly public ramifications: the local becomes global. People become pieces in a strategic board game of activism and advocacy, and every pawn counts. At the same time, of course, my life is no one’s but my own, and the same is true of you and yours. Different people have different feelings about what it means to take on a label, to declare or obscure elements of one’s identity with specific words. I went through a phase of despising labels… it was roughly from ages 15 through 22. I could not stand the idea of the box a word creates, which allows the observer to simplify the observed and put him/her/it on a shelf in their mind. The Jew box. The gay box. The bi box. My battle with words during this time went far beyond personal identifiers… it extended to concepts, to events. I still cringe when people say “nine-eleven” because it is a shorthand for an event that for me can never shorthanded. It’s a meaningless soundbite that makes the whole thing seem way too simple, too manageable. September 11th 2001 was not manageable… just like a human being is not manageable.

Somewhere along the way, someone understood my issues and introduced me to Wittgenstein and Derrida, thank God.

I’m older now, and I’ve come to terms with the necessity of language and its flaws and dangers. I’ve learned how to use and play with and subvert language and its paradigms, labels and their connotations and implications. My linguistic needs constantly shift, and I work to navigate those shifts, trying to keep the balance between retaining integrity and communicating effectively. It is a constant battle to ensure that the words with which we are forced to communicate are understood in your mind similarly to the way in which they are understood in mine… which often requires even more words. It never ends, and it feels sometimes like running on a giant linguistic hamster wheel with no way out.

Language is powerful. It is confusing. It can be dangerous. It can be comforting or it can be stifling. What are words but labels? Must we label things, people, concepts, movements, ourselves, in order to understand them? Not necessarily. For communication? Usually. And so, those of us who are not hermits continue to swim through the murky waters trying to find one another.

My point? Respect the power of a label: its power to build and its power to destroy, to reinforce and to undermine. Use them with caution, and try not to judge others in their own attempts at wielding words, especially when they are self-directed. What I call myself may, indeed, affect you and your life, and what you call yourself may affect me and my life. This is important to remember. Equally important, is that what I call myself is, ultimately, about me and not about you.

Photo by Alex Testere

Submission by Alex Testere, first-time contributor.

Alex Testere will be playing the role of THE INGÉNUE in this year’s performance of “Why Do I Live in New York?”.  You may find him tucked safely inside a sweater on his fire escape, or talking to a Stevie Nicks record over a concoction of cardamom pods.  He revels in voracious daydreams, opaque paint, Oxford commas, and the clumsy stumbles of a tongue with a task.

__________

The Subway is a magical, magical place.  The sweating masses, skittering rats, incessant saxophonists — all naturally a breeding ground for … romance?  I’m not talking about I-love-yous and eternal vows, or even first dates out at that swanky bar you’ve been meaning to take someone to.  The romance of the Subway is softer, quieter, and rarely makes its presence fully known but in the afterthought of a fleeting encounter, after the train has moved along and you’ve found yourself with a ten-minute walk home to reminisce on that intimate stranger with the hairy wrists.

There are few places in New York City that provide as consistent a random sample of city-dwellers as the Subway.  Huge city, huge crowd, instantly reduced to 25 people on a Subway car.  Now our sample is not scientifically “random” on all experimental counts; one must take into account where such-and-such train runs and the general demographic of such-and-such train as it passes such-and-such station (I can personally account for the throngs of hiked up cut-off denim shorts and high waisted floral skirts that flutter off at the Bedford L every evening at 6:15).  But, hey, these are the stations you frequent, so you’re rarely surprised to find others like yourself (of the, ahem, *queer* persuasion) walking along the same line at the same time.

You walk haphazardly down the platform, no real motivation but to pass the time, to find that *perfect* spot where the doors might just land and let you on, allowing you to arrive to that party just in time to be fashionably late, and everyone will love you and all of your histrionic fantasies will come true… Or maybe you just settle for the spot you’ve found two feet from that handsome stranger with the vintage leather bag.  Your proximity (assuming he’s noticed), has immediately initiated you both into the notorious, omnipresent game of gaze.  A glance and a glance away, one second of eye contact, followed by two — no smiling!  This is no time for practical flirtation tactics.  If your mouth moves, it moves to the side or into a clandestine pucker, one that could easily be a natural twitch of the lips, but also one that an interested stranger might find strangely alluring…

This is the line we walk constantly.  One side of the line houses our elegant decorum, our polished oxfords and coifed hair, and the other side is home to its cousin — a desperate, tantric lust who knows it must cross the tracks over to Auntie’s house if it wants to get a slice of that pie.  So we give face on the Subway, though perhaps unbeknownst to said admirable stranger.  And we coyly brush wrists with the men on our sides, imperceptible to those gruff businessmen who decidedly choose to live their lives as “straight”.  And with our bodies a glaringly obvious yet invisible billboard of intimacy, we enact our daily inanities with grace and ease, secretly awaiting someone to notice the playful magic that brews just beneath our brow.

The first thing he did when I arrived at the café was offer me 5 different types of candy. Candy?! Maybe some people would consider that endearing, but it turned me off. I don’t want to date teenagers at 36; I want to date men. So, beyond the candy, what I found out next was that he was a workaholic for the wrong reasons, money and status. He mentioned twice that his jeans cost over $500. Let’s call him $500 Jean Guy. At 32, he had two divorces behind him, one wedding that cost him $80,000, which he felt relevant to tell me. The other, the most recent, resulted in his 4-year-old daughter and a contemptuous relationship with her mother, a woman, whom he informed me, before our first cocktail, within 20 minutes of meeting, that she was bipolar and abusive and that she is costing him enough money to afford her nice tropical vacations. All this before a cocktail!

Shortly after that admission we wandered out of the for some drinks and oysters. I needed a cocktail the way this was headed. We finally made out way into a little place in Harvard Square, and given a corner booth, he proceeded to sit a little too closely, keep offering me candy, telling me to look at him and slurping his oysters with sound effects. Eww. I like oysters, love them in fact, but you are supposed to let them slide down, not slurp slurp suck. Eww, as I write this I suddenly imagine that he probably has sound gross effects during oral sex. Eww.

We finished up at that restaurant and I found myself unnerved and in need of another cocktail to deal with him, so we wander to my local go to and sit at the bar. My date-saving waitress comes by and helps distract several times. The bartender offers great drinks, and a shot. The $500 Jean Guy? Well, he starts sniffing me, telling me that I smell sweet, like candy, and then asks me if I think he smells nice. I never ask a date this, I just assume I do. If they don’t like my parfum, they won’t go out with me again. I give big eyes to my waitress friend, who “happens to need to talk to the bartender” and $500 Jean Guy then proceeds to tell her how nice I smell, and how I smell like candy. Suddenly a co-worker of mine appears after spotting me from across the bar and he tells her too… how I smell like candy, as he starts to eat from his bag of candy he bought earlier this evening.

He walks with me for a bit until our paths, luckily, part, and then proceeds to text me and let me know that when I am over my ex and ready for something less than casual, that I can call him. He also informs me that I should have kissed him. No, no, really. Ok, umm, he was weird. Creepy weird. Something also reminded me of Brooklyn , maybe it was a similar body build, facial thing, propensity to just stare at me weirdly. When I met Brooklyn, I thought it was flattering; in retrospect, once I really got to know Brooklyn, from beginning to end, his intensity towards me was just uncomfortable and weird. How many times did I just say weird? I can’t help it because weird, creepy, and unnerving are the only words that match.

So, what does any frustrated girl do after such a date? She walks past the 24 hour grocery store and buys two different types of ice cream, because she can’t decide: cheesecake bites, raisin toast, yogurt raisins and cereal. I rarely buy any of those items. My heart wanted sugar and carbs to usher in the Hurricane that was coming.

So, I spent Saturday in torrential rain pours, feet soaked, dog soaked, body swollen from carb overload and heart heavy from missing TypeGeek. I had texted him throughout the day to remind him of things to do, just in case, like garage his car, secure any plants in pots outside, watch for odd behavior from his cat, etc. At one point, after he mentioned that he was at a party, I mentioned that I was drinking cab and eating pâté, and potentially by the 3rd glass, I would probably be thinking inappropriately naughty things about him.

He responded with a … “pâté, ewww, gross”.

I made fun of him, told him he was 4 and mentioned that I find it funny how he can eat the muscles but not the organs. He came back with a ,”still gross”.

To which I playfully remarked… ” lucky for you , I never had an issue putting organs in my mouth “.

Silence for a bit, and then “yeah, that’s very nice”.

“I would take TypeGeek over Country Pork any day”, I retorted.

“I’d take a blowjob any day over pâté” TypeGeek said

and so… I responded that ” all you ever need to do is ask”

With that comment said, I went silent for the rest of the evening. We then texted a bit on Sunday as he sneered at the lack of impact the storm had on his neighborhood, while I tried to get the 8 feet of fence that fell in my yard to stand back up and told him to shut it. Then for about 5 minutes on Monday. It’s no mystery or great secret that I want Type Geek and I don’t want to walk away. It’s also no great secret that he doesn’t really want me to go away, or he would not engage in conversations with me about oral sex. I want him back in my bed by his birthday. Sigh.

Meanwhile, I conversed with a couple of men on OkCupid, I didn’t sit and dwell and mope. I also touched base with my friend on Google+ who is going through a divorce after far too many years, and my old Kiwi friend who needs girl advice because he has met someone who sends him ass over tea kettle. It’s been a full week. I’m looking forward to a Thursday Night free without any dates or plans. I think I need a little time with just my dog, my bed and a book. Hope you all made it through the storm safely. Speak to you soon!

While back in Chicago for a friend’s wedding, writer Oscar Raymundo witnessed the city’s gay community conflicted over at-risk youth and the violence brought upon Boystown. It got him thinking about getting older, the stability of settling down and what it means to make a family of one’s own. He shares his experience in a three-part travelogue.

This travelogue first appeared here.

***

CHICAGO CHANGES (PART ONE)

c. Julie Michelle (http://iliveheresf.com/?p=1988)

I’ve never had a problem taking a red eye. I sleep pretty well on planes. And on my recent flight to Chicago to attend a friend’s wedding, I slept undisturbed. I needed it; my week was planned nonstop, hopping through my favorite neighborhoods and discovering new places I never explored. For the first time in the two years since I had graduated college, I was returning to the city I never thought I’d miss, the city where I came of age and left, a man.

There was something about returning to the place I once lived for five years. As a whole, the city was familiar, but the details, like bus stops, had changed with the traffic, moved down a block, altered to the needs of the passengers going home. And so it was up to me to adjust quickly to these changes.

Rested and alert, I got to Vanessa’s apartment in Streeterville right as the summer sun was beginning to heat up the city. I had arranged to stay there for the first half of the week, then off to a hotel right before the wedding to get out of what I assumed would be Vanessa’s maid-of-honor hysteria.

“How was the bachelorette party last night?” I asked shuffling my suitcase so it wouldn’t block the door to the bathroom.

“We went to bed at five,” Vanessa said way too nicely to have gotten only two hours of sleep. “And Jenny didn’t get nearly drunk enough.” That wasn’t hard to believe. Jenny, the bride, didn’t start drinking until later in college. In fact, she was admirably against alcohol our entire freshman year. Straight edge, she said she was. That changed once she started dating the frat boy who was now her fiancé, married in less than a week.

Vanessa went back to bed, and I headed off to meet Mo. She was at Union Park for the last day of the Pitchfork Music Festival, and I wanted to see Cut Copy. Mo had also flown in to go to the wedding but from New York, and she was staying with Whitney and her boyfriend Blake in the Ukrainian Village. Once I got near to the park, I joined the stream of hipster white kids walking past equally youthful black kids selling water bottles, crouching by the street curb.

I heard the word “faggot” blaring from a microphone, and I figured I had gotten to the festival just in time for Odd Future. The booking of the foulmouthed rap group with an affinity for shock value via misogynistic and homophobic lyrics prompted Between Friends, an anti-domestic violence group, to camp out at Pitchfork and pass out flyers.

I never understood the uproar with violent imagery in music and movies, the claim that video games desensitize kids or why the news censors certain depictions of bloodshed. There are wars going on, gangs are very much a part of urban fabric. At least rap music is expressive about it and considerably less harmful. Besides, no one criticized Ke$ha’s song “Cannibal” for literally comparing her appetite for guys to Jeffrey Dahmer (subtle, that one). Maybe it’s because no one believes Ke$ha capable of such crime but the members of Odd Future?

The next night, I went to The Bedford, a new bar housed in the basement of an abandoned bank in Wicker Park. The owners had turned the vault into a more intimate lounge. It was mostly empty. Mo, Whitney, Blake, and Adia were already there when I arrived, and Tom met us later. Adia asked us what we had planned for the week. I said I wanted to go to Empire Liquors, Debonair Social Club and Evil Olive, but I was quickly shut down with some eye rolls followed by an awkward silence. Apparently, at 25, I was now too old for the hotspots I used to frequent in college. Proving just how juvenile the scene now seems, Evil Olive has a “Porn & Chicken” party every Monday night, where they serve fried chicken while porn plays on the big screens. Nothing about the fleshy affair enticed me, so perhaps my friends were right.

“I also want to go to Boystown while I’m here,” was my next suggestion.

“The neighborhood has changed,” Adia, a Boystown resident, told me in a cautious, you-better-watch-out tone.

“I know,” I replied. “It’s in every local paper.” On Independence Day eve, a man was stabbed on Halsted right between Roscoe Street and Belmont. The incident involved a horde of African-Americans, dashing and shouting, and a bystander catching it on tape and posting it on YouTube. It seems social media is not a cure for Genovese syndrome.

“I grew up there, my mom still lives there, and as an African-American, it just makes me sad to see it all go down in my neighborhood,” Whitney said.

The video rekindled tensions, racial or otherwise, and launched another round of finger pointing in the gay community. On one side, the mostly white local residents and business owners who cited crime as the main concern and went insofar as to creating a Facebook page, Take Back Boystown. On the other side, the urban youth advocates who defend the Center on Halsted’s community services for queer kids of color.

“The story has been completely sensationalized,” Tom said. “Crime rates have actually decreased in Lakeview.”

“Oh, of course, it’s sensationalized!” Whitney got a little heated in talking about it. But she’s an actress so she gets heated about almost anything. “But it’s not these kids who are causing the trouble.”

I asked Whitney, seeing as she straddles this binary (an African-American raised in Boystown), whom she thought was really responsible for all the violence.

“It’s the drug dealers, the pimps, the gangs that follow them from the South side,” she said. “They’re like predators!”

I realized that in all that I had read and heard, no one was pointing the finger at these predators, as Whitney called them. But I wasn’t scared. I knew, now more than ever, I had to revisit Boystown for myself.

[Read the second installment of this travelogue next week. In the meantime, if you want to read an explicit, unedited version of this installment, click here.]

A few weeks ago, I suffered a birthday. At my age, I no longer care to celebrate birthdays. I merely endure them, as inconspicuously as possible, and hope no one else remembers. I am none too thrilled about getting older. I feel okay, but age does strange and disturbing things to the body. Plus, society in general tends to be a bit youth-obsessed, and gay men in particular can be extremely ageist. I’ve tried to keep myself in relatively decent shape; however, over the years, my skin has lost a considerable amount of elasticity, and I find that exercise doesn’t have quite the impact it once did. Mercifully, people rarely think that I look my age. Although, I’m not sure how my age is supposed to look. I consider it to be case-specific. I believe that genetics and self-improvement play a substantial role in determining how one does or does not display the influence of time. Personally, I often think I’m gross. And occasionally, I suffer, to varying degrees, from feelings of obsolescence. I’ve tried to rise above it, but it never fully dissipates. Being single doesn’t really help all that much.

Something happened recently that more or less put things into perspective and possibly made me realize how silly I am being about the whole aging experience. Several months ago, I registered on an online dating site. In creating my profile, I decided to list my age as being three years younger than I actually was. Let me just say that I am generally a very honest person. I am a huge proponent of full disclosure. But, for some reason (insecurity, a momentary bout of vanity, plain old stupidity, etc.), I fibbed. At the time, my online age seemed more palatable than my true age. In my mind, three years made a world of difference. A rounded number seemed more aesthetically pleasing. In hindsight, I realize this is completely absurd. It’s embarrassing to even admit it.

Initially, online dating was a less than pleasurable adventure, and a true exercise in futility. There were very few user profiles that caught my eye, and when those few were pursued further, the profiles and pictures never quite accurately portrayed what would be encountered during the face-to-face meetings. The whole experience was rapidly shaping up to be a huge disappointment. However, eventually, a few days before my birthday, I was contacted by, and subsequently met, a rather incredible younger man. Our first “date” exceeded my expectations, to say the very least. He was smart, funny, charming and absolutely adorable. We had a drink, then dinner. Everything went well, and we ended up seeing each other a couple of more times that week. On my birthday, we spent the day in Central Park, and it was undoubtedly one of the most enjoyable birthdays I have ever had. I was in the process of changing jobs at the time, and I wasn’t working the following week, so we saw each other almost every day. The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted to see him. In the short amount of time that we had known each other, we established quite a rapport.

One Saturday, we were at my apartment, and he happened to see my passport. He opened it up to look at my picture and, of course, noticed my birth date. When he asked me why my age online was different than my actual age, it took me a minute to remember what I had done when composing my profile. I explained to him that, at the time, I was feeling apprehensive and insecure about my age, and that I had completely forgotten (which I genuinely had) that I had even portrayed myself as being three years younger than I actually am. We continued on with our plans for the day, but things were different, and the mood deteriorated as the day proceeded. He was a little distant, and made several off-color comments about various things. Eventually, I asked him if he was okay and his response was, “Actually, no, I’m not.” He was bothered by the fact that I had been dishonest about my age. In other words, my being three years older than he originally thought I was didn’t bother him – it was the fact that I felt the need to shave three years off of my age and lead potential dates to think that I was younger than I really was that he found upsetting. He said it was a symptom of a larger issue, and that he felt his trust had been compromised. After a very uncomfortable evening, which included dinner with friends, he went home to his apartment. I have to admit, it was more than a little disheartening.

Attempting to analyze and rationalize what happened has been an eye-opening process, mainly because I always end up looking like a colossal hypocrite. I’m tempted to say that he completely overreacted to something that really isn’t that big a deal. But isn’t that exactly what I was doing when I lied about my age in the first place? I’d also like to be able to say that three years difference in my actual age and my online age is such an insignificant amount that it really shouldn’t matter anyway but, apparently, it was significant enough for it to matter to me when I created my online profile. And finally, with regards to my aforementioned disappointment upon meeting a potential date, only to discover that their profile and picture didn’t accurately portray the real thing…again, I wind up looking like a total douche. Granted, my deception was on a smaller scale, but it was deception, nonetheless. In the end, I can’t continue to beat myself up over my unnecessarily dubious online dating profile. I’ve already updated and corrected it. I’ve learned my lesson. It’s time to grow up and start acting my age. And that just pisses me off.

You know what makes it hard to write sex jokes on a Friday afternoon? Paralyzing, recurrent earthquake-induced anxiety attacks, and the acute Kantian terror of seeing a giant uncaring death spiral lurch toward the cities and people you love. TNG promises puns next week so long as D.C. isn’t reduced to a fetid slurry of salt water, pulverized marble, and broken flesh. God damn.

Check out some highlights from this week’s content:

In Ideas:

• Rioa sticks a foot out of the twelve-step closet
• Gella takes on puppet pluralism
• Student Driver deals with the ghosts of hookups past

In Culture:

• Of all the things Jeremy wants shoved down his throat on a first date, a guy’s playlist isn’t one
• Topher marks two decades of butch queen femme vogue realness
• Kaysey sits down with one of the cutest, most talented plaid-clad otters to have had his face one our homepage, which is saying a lot

In Giveaways:

• DC – Sweater Set sideshow tickets
• NYC – Erasure tickets
• Want TNG to help wrangle cool, free stuff for your city? Hit us up at advertising@thenewgay.net and we’ll see what we can do.

DCers will recall that TNG’s own queer Rock ‘n’ Roll lounge night, Beat City, is tonight at Chief Ike’s. The upside of imminent apocalypse is that you don’t have to worry about hangovers.

Last week, I went on one first date. This gentleman, the Legal Design Guy, doesn’t know my ex like I thought he might (thankfully. he was getting into the music school as Type Geek was leaving.) Also, it turns out he knows a circle of people who I know, who also don’t know Type Geek. So we had oysters, we had drinks, we had pâté and confit and more drinks. Conversation was fine, but it felt more friend than anything. There is something slightly smarmy that I can’t get past, that I don’t find sexy. I can’t pin point it exactly, but it’s there.

Remember my Jewish Sex God from the very beginning? The one who ushered me into the folds? Well, we were having a conversation the other night, our friendship never really being the same since my trip to visit him that weekend. In the course of the dialogue he mentions that we had no sexual connection and proceeded to tell me why. Now, it’s fine that he didn’t feel a connection to me, but it isn’t fine that he decided to tell me that my being nervous at the reality of having sex with a well endowed man after 12 years of non-penetrative lesbian sex translated into being a horrible lay who he felt ashamed to touch. WHAT? Yeah, so, he said that I was largely unresponsive — behaving as a victim of sexual abuse does — because I didn’t make much noise, because I didn’t show him how much I was enjoying sex with him. That I was too inside myself and didn’t give much to my partner, that he felt awful continuing to touch me because he felt that I must have been abused because I seemed to be in another place. Ok, once again, WHAT? Again, 12 years…non penetrative lesbian… flies to Seattle to have weekend sex romp with well endowed male friend… maybe, just MAYBE, I was nervous and shy and insecure about the entire thing?! What a dick, and I am NOT talking about his dick. I felt shitty afterwards, so I ended up emailing Type Geek for his take on my sexual style and he confirmed that Seattle is a DICK, and that I should NEVER give another thought to it, because I was obviously nervous and that he had zero concerns with my style. Thank you Type Geek. Grrr, Seattle. Seattle had no idea why I was angry, which at first I wasn’t. After I thought about it though, that is when I started to get angry, and offended.

So, yeah, Type Geek, we have texted. I apologized to him for not being able to pretend I don’t care and just cut ties. I’m not done with him. I can’t shake that a huge part of me believes that our story hasn’t ended yet. It’s just not our time. But, I want it to be. I know I can’t rush it, but I want to. I want the life with him that I know we can have, but he doesn’t have enough balls yet to have faith, to let go, to grasp something unknown, rather than his own fear. He needs time, he needs some self work, and I just need to live my life, which includes dating other people, while he does his work. Someday I will try again.

If you all think I am foolish, honestly, fuck you. I’m not on this journey for any of you, for how you would do it. It isn’t a choose your own adventure, and you don’t have the right to be angry at the roads I choose to take, because they are different from the paths and methods you would. This is MY story, and when I am laying in my final hours, I owe explanations to only my heart and the hearts of those I have chosen to embrace into my own. I thank you all for reading, for getting involved and attached and relating, but in the end, this story is uniquely my own and I have no regrets about how I am living it and loving through it, even if that means I am just filling the spaces between Type Geek. Even if that means I am frustrating the hell out of my readers.

It is not at all clear what Bert and Ernie’s ages are supposed to be. The fact that they share an apartment without adult supervision says nothing on this score given that Big Bird, who is eternally 6 years old, lives alone in his nest and is cared for by the community. The monster characters all seem to be at some stage of what we understand as childhood, with the adult (and sometimes child) human characters explaining the basics of emotions and numbers and relational concepts to them for the benefit of viewers. Bert and Ernie, however, are not monsters. They look as though they were designed as representative of human characters, and therefore we may feel more of a need to investigate and understand the truth of their narrative in human terms than we do of absurd characters like a green furry grouch living in a garbage can or a red furry monster with a speech delay.

The question for me, however, is not whether Ernie and Bert are a gay couple. I will admit that years ago I wrote a short story about the two puppets as actors on the show with their own off-camera life as a couple, talking about how they wished they could be “out” on Sesame Street… however, it was not an expression of my desire for them to reveal any such truth on the show. I wrote it after reading a news story similar to the ones generated by the petitions to have the characters marry now that gay marriage has been legalized in our state. An independent film had been shown at a festival in which it was satirically suggested that Ernie and Bert were gay. Then, as now, it was not the suggestion itself, but rather to The Children’s Television Workshop’s response to the suggestion that had got me riled.

Back then, CTW’s response was much more hostile in its defensiveness. This time it seems they’ve taken a more diplomatic tone, but the reaction still strikes my ears as laced with a certain sense of dismissal if not disgust, the brushing off of a patently absurd idea. The attitude that I perceive is echoed by responses from the public: How could anyone suggest that these characters might be gay? Why would we introduce this subject to a children’s show? Why must these innocent best friends be sexualized? Why should sexuality come up at all in a children’s show? Don’t our kids grow up too fast already?

These questions belie the very societal prejudice that they seem so fastidiously to avoid stating explicitly. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay but…” doesn’t remove the inherent homophobia implicit in the rejection of the “preposterous” suggestion that Bert and Ernie could be gay. The fact is, sexuality is, and always has been, a central theme of Sesame Street. We don’t see it as such of course, because we don’t think of Gordon and Susan’s marriage, Maria and Luis’s engagement and marriage, Bob’s relationship with Linda, Maria’s pregnancy and the birth of Gabby, or the adoption of Susan and Gordon’s son Miles, as having to do with sexuality… these events are about relationships and families, about love and attachment, things that children experience and process in their daily lives. But a gay relationship? That is seen as just sex, and something that children need not be exposed to.

I don’t need Ernie and Bert to be gay. I think it is a good thing that they are two best friends living together as roommates, teaching kids about compare and contrast, about agreeing and disagreeing, about friendship despite, or in light of, differences between people. I think that non-sexual, platonic, close friendship is something that needs to be depicted in the world of Sesame Street and I think that Ernie and Bert are the perfect vehicle for the lessons of friendship.

What bothers me, is that Sesame Street has always been openly about diversity, about relating to people different from you. The fact that the central families on the show are African-American and Hispanic is not a coincidence. There was a reason that American Sign Language and Spanish were emphasized. Jim Henson’s vision for Sesame Street was that it should both reflect the child’s life, and broaden her horizons, teaching her not only tolerance, but acceptance, and appreciation for differences between people, and recognizing at the same time the things that make us all the same. That is precisely what Bert and Ernie have taught us all since we were children.

Instead of getting up-in-arms about the suggestion that Bert and Ernie come out of a closet that they may or may not be occupying, perhaps we should all take a step back and realize that this is not about the orange and yellow, short and tall, messy and neat, type b and type a best friends who live in the basement apartment of 123 Sesame Street, and their sexual orientation. This is about a reality of our children’s lives that they are not seeing reflected in the show that helped us all understand and process lifecycle events and emotional truths and the variety of humanity. All of the families on Sesame Street are heteronormative. Why can’t we let those of our children with two mommies or two daddies see their lives normalized? After all, aren’t LGBTQ folks the people in your neighborhood… the people that you meet each day?