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.

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.

President Theodore Roosevelt

I want nothing more than for President Obama to succeed. I voted for him, was there in Chicago’s Grant Park  the night he won. It was an exhilarating moment for all of us there, and the millions across the country who were riding the wave of Obama’s brand of “Hope”. I would have put my money on seeing George W. Bush and Dick Cheney get gay-married over seeing my home state of Indiana go blue and vote for a Democrat for president, but it happened.

First and foremost, I’m a Democrat. I can only say that I am simply not able to vote Republican, even for the ones that I might even sort-of like. I will never be able to be supportive of a party that has collectively and so disgustingly been involved with the opposition of the rights and dignity of millions of gay Americans. I get that not every Republican is anti-gay, nor are they all small-minded or selfish fat cats who only care about getting richer and richer.

I wish that I had the ability to allow myself to look at all the issues and make a choice between the two parties, but I can’t. Republicans have continuously been elected on the back of bigotry, and I will have nothing to do with even the good ones. My conscience won’t allow it. I would love to look at both parties without having to think this way, but it is not possible for me and that’s the plain truth of the matter.

But here is one thing I will tell you about Republicans: they had Teddy Roosevelt, and if I could raise his ghost from the dead to lead this country through its economic and social struggles with bombast and bravery, I would do it in a second – and throw Obama out of office faster than he could pussyfoot around another difficult issue.

Mr. President, your position on gay marriage is still “evolving”? Oh grow up already and stand up for something. You want to drop DOMA, you pushed to get rid of DADT, and you speak to gay groups. Give me a break: stop using the community and actually fully stand up for them.

Mr. President, what have you changed in Washington? And look, I get it; I don’t expect miracles. Since Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson turned the government during George Washington’s presidency into one of the most biting, backstabbing and bickering political moments in our history — thereby setting the stage for our two-party system — those that have served in government have acted like children in their arguments and thieves who seek to only gain power, money and notoriety for themselves.

And every once in a while, someone comes along whom speaks truth to power, as the saying goes. Someone who cares more about what is right and getting it done above all else. You were going to be that President, that’s why we all voted for you for God’s sake.

Teddy Roosevelt was a thorn in the side of politicians and businessmen who throughout his life and career fought for what was right, no matter that it might have made him a political casualty. I don’t think that Roosevelt was a perfect person, nor a perfect president, but there is certainly a reason he hovers at the top of the list of most historians’ greatest U.S. presidents and was able to stand as someone associated more for the character of his politics than the affiliation of his party.

I don’t know what Roosevelt would do today, but one thing I do know is that he wouldn’t quietly compromise our future. The man was shot during a speech and refused medical attention until he was done with his speech – something tells me he wouldn’t roll over. He may have walked softly, but he sure as hell beat the shit out of the corrupt bastards in this country with his big stick.

So be the president I voted for, Mr. Obama. Remind me why I so passionately supported you in 2008. Don’t just try to do what is right. Do it. Stop pretending like everyone is willing to come up with a compromise and stop pretending like compromise is always the best option. Stand up for something already. Be brave. Be loud. Raise your voice for what is right. Show some real passion.

I know men with tits who have bigger balls than you.

My first experience around other queer “activists” was in 1995. I had just moved to Buffalo New York and my friend Sadie took me to the LGBT meeting at the University Of Buffalo. I was from a small town where openly gay people were scarce. It was quite intimidating to be in a room full of hip and intelligent queers who were my peers.

As early as the second meeting I found myself at odds with the LGBT club. The entire meeting was spent taking dollars bills, drawing pink triangles on them, and writing “Dyke Dollar” on them.

I remember the phrase “Dyke Dollars” being tossed around the room dozens of times. I cringed each time. I remember leaving the meeting feeling like I’d just spend the dumbest two hours of my life. As a fellow gay I felt I had much more important and profound things to do than to deface government capital. It only took one pink triangle to dissipate my enchantment with the LGBT club.
I understand the point of the “Dyke Dollar” at the time was to give the message to the general public that gay people had money to spend too.  But so what?  Should every minority group begin marking their commerce we’d just end up with a wallet full of dollar bill graffiti. This early experience with queer activism was such a turn off.

In the sixteen years since that meeting, in my own quiet way, I’ve changed the world. When the homophobic biker gang I met through a friend found out I was gay they didn’t hate me because of it. They realized that gay could mean more than they originally realized. When my good friend’s wife met me she hated gay people. She told me after getting to know me she realized that gay people are just “normal” (whatever that means). I allow people their ignorance but slowly and quietly disassemble it by showing I’m a good person.

I stand by something I realized sixteen years ago. The best way to change the world is to be yourself. When people see dollar bills with minority scribbling it doesn’t defuse their hatred or enlighten them. But when people see that their neighbor or co-worker is an awesome person who just happens to be gay, the impact could potentially be huge.

All the political people who picketed on the front lines have made a change in the world. Their work is valuable and essential. But it is important to realize that if that kind of work isn’t for you there’s still a way to make a difference in your own way. Just be you.
There’s a chance that the person most impacted by the Dyke Dollars was this person who was in the room while they were being created. I realized that day I was a black sheep amongst the black sheep. I left the room with the money in my wallet unscathed.

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On stage moments before

Livid. I still get livid when I think about it four years later.

I’ve forgiven my father, my ex-boyfriends, my evil classmates, and shady former friends. I’ve forgiven my cousin that sat behind me in college and called me a fag. Only one memory races my adrenaline and it’s that of Coco the drag queen.

Coco was very pretty when I approached her. I was one of the performers on St. Pete Pride’s music stage and Coco was hosting the show. I had performed at Mondohomo in Atlanta the night before. I got off stage in Atlanta at midnight, drove eight hours, and then slept for three. When I arrived in St. Pete at noon I was haggard but ready to rock.

Upon arriving the St. Pete Pride organizers were severely stressed. Like many shows, this one was running behind schedule. I empathized with them. I’ve organized many shows and I know the torture of wrestling with time.

I took one for the team. I was scheduled to play a half hour set. I offered to cut my set down to four songs. The event organizers were grateful.

The performer directly before me was Generic Lesbian Folk Singer #956. After her tenth song her ten loud lesbian fans heartily cheered for yet another Melissa Etheridge cover. Naturally Generic Lesbian Folk Singer #956 requested to play two more songs. Sometimes musicians can be real assholes.

Finally it was my turn to play. Song #1 got the crowd dancing. By song #2 people were getting sweaty. It was during song #3 that the “incident” happened.

It wasn’t at the beginning of song #3. Nor was it after song #3. It was during. Right smack in the middle of song #3 the drag queen host, Coco, got on the microphone and began talking over me.

“Jeremy Gloff is your song almost done yet…”
“Ok, how much longer…”
“Ok let’s wrap it up…”

I stopped mid-song. I said on the microphone “apparently I just drove from Atlanta to perform two and a half songs for you. Next year I am going to do come as a lesbian folk singer and do covers.” Yes, I can be an asshole too.

In the twenty years I’ve been doing music I’ve never had someone talk over me. It’s a disrespect I find unfathomable. Especially from another gay performer. I wish to this day I had been quick enough to look at Coco and say “will somebody please get this man off the stage, I’m trying to perform”.

The fact that my performance in Atlanta the night before was a life-changing experience made it no easier. It was that night I met Team Gina, Nicky Click, and the whole Atlanta Mondohomo family. These people have become constants in my life. It ripped my heart to know I’d left a historical queer music fest as a revered performer only to be treated like garbage a few hours later.

Coco made me hate drag queens for a long time. I felt seething envy that in gay culture rude bitchy men dressed as woman were given dollar after dollar for lipsyncing Whitney Houston, while original performers like myself were talked over mid-song. It took me a few years to realize I was generalizing and some of the wonderful queens in Tampa and Orlando have brought me back around to enjoying the art of drag.

But Coco? You are a real cunt. Some nights in bed I plot my revenge. In these reveries I go to watch you perform and I throw a shit pie at your face mid-song. Or I fill a squirt gun full of piss and shoot it right in your mouth when you least expect it. I’d feel no remorse.

I know a lot of drag queens have fought for years to get from respect for the world. I hope that someday Coco will learn, even when she’s in her wig and makeup, she has to give that respect back too.

By Guerillero, taken from Wikimedia Commons

“Kids don’t follow
What you’re doin’
In my face and out my ear
Kids won’t follow
What you’re saying
We can’t hear”

–”Kids Don’t Follow” by The Replacements

I don’t turn 21 years old until February 2012. I have never really been one for alcohol, so I really don’t care about the legal drinking aspect. No, it is the fact that I lack the freedom of movement until that time I turn that “magical” age.

Though Ian MacKaye is still alive and kicking in the area, his influence hasn’t seemed to have translated to the queer scene in DC much. Yeah, there are organizations like SMYAL that are for people 13-21, but if I wanted to hang around teenagers, then I’d hang out with my younger brother and his high schooler friends. That doesn’t cut it for me; I want to hang out with the big dogs. Besides, I am kind of known for preferring the company of people older than me (especially when it comes to dating). I’d say that almost all of my friends in DC are older than me, most by at least 5 years and some by about a decade.

The bad thing about having older friends while underage is the fact that going-out plans have to be changed or reconsidered to fit my limitations, or I end up not being able to go at all. There are many bars that flat-out do not allow people under 21. Needless to say, this gets increasingly frustrating, especially since I don’t want to drink at all. This is also frustrating for my friends, who want to go out and have fun, but also want me with them. I could call out some of these places by name, but some of them have been very kind to TNG and the queer community.

I have praised TNG for events like Homo/Sonic and Transformer for being all ages. In fact, I first met Zack (who encouraged me to contribute to the site) at Homo/Sonic when I was 18 years old. Sadly, there hasn’t been a Homo/Sonic since March (I remember because I was on Spring Break) and Transformer went by the wayside quite a while ago. Both mostly took place at the wonderful Black Cat, which, as a punk club, has always kept MacKaye’s ethos alive by putting Xs on the hands of the underage rather than excluding us.

Right now, I have to admit, I’m more than a little pissed off with TNG. Lately, there has not been a single event that I have been able to attend. Beat City, She Rex, and the like have all been at 21+ venues. Hell, I didn’t get to go to Zack’s DJing farewell party because of where it is held. The biggest downside is that, rather than getting to be around fellow queer people and supportive friends, I have spent a lot of Friday and Saturday nights of my summer being forced to stay in my hometown closet (as I’ve mentioned before, there is no queer scene or support system in my hometown for about 25 miles). I honestly feel that part of this lack of space is laziness, that places would rather exclude underage people rather than take the extra steps to let them in and monitor them from drinking (like the Black Cat does).

I know there are other “young adults” like me out there who are frustrated by this; I’ve talked to them before (yes, sometimes I do actually associate with my peers). When I was still at community college, I remember hearing at least one girl lament that she couldn’t find a lesbian bar that wasn’t 21+ where she could go and openly meet and dance with other queer women. Even when school is in session, you really feel the need to occasionally escape often-incestuous queer group of your college (sometimes you don’t want to make out with someone and have to see them in your Economics class on Monday). At least, Apex, for the mixed feelings people had about it, was actually a place where gay 18+ young adults could go hang out and dance (there was even a weekly free night for college students), but it has recently shut down. That pretty much leaves us up shit’s creek until something changes.

So what’s a queer underage student to do? Where do we go? Maybe it is time for us to rally our forces and demand our right to be treated like the legal adults that we are.

“I’m the biggest bitch in the world”.

Tony in Jamestown insisted to me that he is indeed the biggest bitch in the world. He then proceeded to spend a half hour recounting all the times he was mean to someone.

Roy, my friend from Atlanta also is certain that he holds the coveted “biggest bitch in the world” prize. The only thing Roy likes more than tossing spear-headed zingers at someone is recounting the story thirty times the next day.

Chuck from Tampa additionally had laid claim on the “biggest bitch” crown. His like-minded friends encourage his tirades and laugh about them behind his back.

With all the many things we can aspire to be as gay men, why do we want so badly to be perceived as bitches?

I understand that with a lot of people gayness is equated with suppression. Perhaps being outrageously “outspoken” is a way to deal with the confinement? Is bitchiness merely a verbal armor to protect ourselves?

Some facets of gay population adore the female “bitch”. We love the footage of Madonna unable to give an interview because she is too hot. We love Julia Sugarbaker’s tirades on Designing Women. I could think of countless examples. I have certainly embraced and even encouraged diva moments.

But why? There’s been many times in my life when the most lauded gay man in the room was the loose-lipped hot head. While he found himself genius I found him in dire need of learning the difference between assertive and aggressive behavior. Recently at a party that exact prototype exited the room proclaiming “aren’t I just the biggest bitch?” Indeed, you aren’t.

Among all these self-proclaimed bitches where is the most heartfelt gay guy in the world? Or the most patient? Or the most articulate?

I equate bitchiness with an underdeveloped personality. I find bitchiness immature. I see bitchiness as a tool for people who are unable to cope with complex adult situations in a mature manner.

I’d love if the next evolution of gay men can be the transition from bitchiness to sincerity. Until then consider me the most annoyed gay in the world.

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Obviously I’m stretching and generalizing. But I hear it so often:
“This place has no culture”
“This place has no culture”
“This place has no culture”

It’s always the same kind of people that complain about a lack of culture. They are always white. Quite often they are “artists” in the most mediocre sense possible. Almost always they are unsupportive of their local scene, never contributing to it themselves. Quite often these kids talk about how they are going to move to New York City because “there’s more culture there”. Whiney white kids. I am only comfortable generalizing so much because I’ve had to struggle through this conversation at least fifty times.

I wonder if these kids are living in the same Tampa I’m living in.

I think about the quaint authentic Cuban sandwich shop down the street from my apartment. Until I moved to Florida I never knew just how good Cuban coffee is. I had trouble ordering at first because I don’t speak Spanish… but I’ve always felt welcomed. I love the beautiful Cuban art hanging on the walls. What a beautiful culture.

I think about all the wonderful Indian Hookah lounges within ten minutes of my home. The beautiful Indian woman behind the counter at my favorite one always makes me smile. What a beautiful culture.

I think about the Soul Food buffet less than five minutes from my front door. I never tasted chitlins and collard greens until I ate there. We have the same server every time and she always makes me smile and laugh. I love hearing stories about her family. What a beautiful culture.

I think about the underground rap scene in Tampa. I’ve seen a lot of vans with websites plastered across the back window. I always check out the websites and more often than not the music is great. What a beautiful culture.

And I could think of dozens of other examples of the wildly diverse melting pot that is Tampa, Florida. I’ve learned so much about, and experienced so many different cultures here. The statement that Tampa has no culture is inaccurate…in truth Tampa has dozens of varieties of culture.

So when the white hipster kid told me there was no culture in Tampa at first I was offended, and then I realized that to him, culture is only another white kid with a can of spray paint putting some bullshit on a wall and calling it art.

Maybe you don’t have to move to a different city to experience culture. Maybe you just have to move outside of your comfort zone.

1) Matt and Kim are the most annoying band to ever exist.  Period.

2) “Born This Way” is the most overhyped turd of an album to ever be released.  Exclamation point.

3) I despise the word “radical.”  No question.

When I visited New York last year I read an article in a zine from a girl who prefaced her name with about seven adjectives. She was a “radical feminist punk vegan queer blah blah motherfucking blah” writer. And as I perused her article one side of me “aww-ed” at the cute idealism of pre-packaged youth, while the other side guffawed at the explicit self-stereotyping going on. Who exactly was this girl underneath all the niches she’d subscribed to?

I counted twenty times in her piece that she declared she was radical.

Mohwak?  Check.
Patches on a dirty jacket? Check.
Piercings? Double check.
Homogenized “rebellion” against society? You bethcha.
I sadly knew everything about this girl before it was revealed in her article.  Right down to her taste in music, her clothes, her belief system, and the soy milk and humus she made of point of saying she was snacking on.

I am certain if I sat down with this girl we’d get along famously.  If you dig past the shroud of generic labeling that people encase themselves in, there’s always something golden to find.

Fitting a stereotype is inevitable in our current world.  At this point it seems like everything has been done.  But with the “radical” movement there seems to be such a large breach between the self-image and the actual image.

If you are blatantly fitting a stereotype be self-aware enough to fucking proclaim it and own it.  I scoff at pre-packaged outsiders.  As of late it seems the least radical thing someone can do is to be “radical”.  (The conservatively dressed man from Utah I met on a bus recently had so many twists and quirks that revealed themselves as I spoke to him.  Now HE was radical.)

I have tons of friends that call themselvses “radical kids.”  Many are neither “radical” nor are they “kids” at this point.  I adore them.  They are wonderful people.  But I like them better when I ignore their self-imposed identifying adjectives. What a bunch of unnecessary baggage.

To be as predictable as the mainstream you are supposedly rebelling against (right down to the taste in music, clothes, and belief systems)  strips the word “radical” of its power and  substance.

I found the radical girl in that article fitting a stereotype to a T.   The rebellion she saw in herself was only gaudy costuming.

A sincere and more effective rebellion against society would be to not fit into any box. Now isn’t that a radical idea?

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c. RaffiKojian and Lycaon, Wikimedia Commons

I can’t believe I’m actually addressing you in a formal letter. Doing so validates both your existence as a pop icon and the ridiculousness of your name. I have to admit I’m not a fan of your music, but I do appreciate what you’re doing to raise the visibility of queer issues in mainstream culture. While I take issue with the audacity that must motivate anyone proclaiming themselves any sort of icon, I freely admit that today’s gay culture could use some new leadership.

I first became aware of you years ago when I sent out a call for song requests for an alternative queer dance party I co-DJ. We got a series of requests, some of which I already had on my computer and a few I’d never heard of. I downloaded those I didn’t have and put them all on shuffle while going about my business in the house. When the first few notes of “Just Dance” began bouncing off the walls of my apartment — I believe I was getting out of the shower — I immediately sprinted to the stereo system yelling, “Ack, ack, ack!” I quickly hit pause on iTunes and checked the screen thinking, “What was that? Lady Gaga? Who the F is that?” Crystal clear stadium pop, nothing I had any interest in.

I share this anecdote to illustrate how I knew NOTHING of you before I heard your music, which I feel makes my first reaction untainted by any spin, peer-pressure or otherwise undue influence. Little did I know that you’d make a regular occurrence in my life from that point on.

I freely admit that you’ve done an amazing job at accomplishing what you’ve set out to do. You make infectious, mass-consumable pop music. Gold star. If I listened to the radio or went to gay bars, I’m sure I’d never be able to get your songs out of my head. The one track of yours that I’m pretty intimate with — Bad Romance — I kinda like and I’ve actually played at our dance party. The crowd went wild. It was as if the attendance doubled with the chime only five notes. If only I had such power.

And I guess that’s why I’m writing.  What exactly are you doing with your power, besides making money hand-over-fist? I guess you’re not a fan of PETA, since apparently you didn’t think twice about wearing a dress made out of meat to a public function. Between your speech at the National Equality March in fall of 2009 and your raising of gay male visibility through your videos, it’s obvious that you are interested in nurturing your core audience and finding them a place in the larger world. The real question is, what is that place?

Your so-called “Little Monsters” are looking to you — and have been even before you nominated yourself “gay icon” — for something to emulate. And honestly, I don’t think you’re doing the best job of it. Gay youth have been focused on pop music, pop culture, alcohol and sex long before you came around. Instead of grabbing their attention and helping them realize the import of many serious issues facing our community, you encourage them to be even more outrageous, more vapid, more carefree. While I agree that any young gay man coming out of the closet needs some immediate and intense fun to let him know that the world is worth living in, that can’t be the entirety of what his life revolves around. But maybe since you’re not a gay man, you wouldn’t understand.

Lady Gaga, I’m asking you to save me from your little monsters. I’m not asking you to corral them and keep them isolated from me. (Though maybe you can steer them clear away from my house parties.) Instead, I’m asking you to inspire them to be something other than monsters, something better. If you’re really as creative and talented as everyone says you are, you should be able to use your gift to help evolve your little monsters into medium-sized gay men and eventually grand people. Setting the bar low at “little monster” is insulting at best.

Many thanks

–Michael

It makes me cringe when I hear a straight guy embark on a long tirade about how he could never possibly have sex or be intimate with another guy.  I sigh and think to myself, “Not this again. What an asshole. You don’t like dick. I get it!”

It’s understandable that a straight guy doesn’t want to have sex with another guy.  The problem for me is the drawn out and debasing lecture in which he frames his dislike.  It’s the soapbox diatribes about the awful, repugnant, I’d-rather-die-than-yada-yada-yada aspects of male-to-male intimacy that rub me the wrong way.  It’s the subtle and innocuous way that heterosexism keeps homosexuality on the margins while reasserting its own dominance that I resist.  Intentions aside, this rhetoric by straight guys regarding homosexuality only serves to devalue homosexuality—posing it as a distortion, an inferior derivative of heterosexuality.
Even though I’m fresh out of the closet, I’ve noticed that gay guys have countered this dominance by imitating and flipping this rhetoric on its head—“I could never have sex with a girl.  Pussy is so nasty!”  In order to affirm their own validity and push heterosexism off its pedestal, gay guys adopt this same technique—that is, to speak casually about heterosexuality as a perverted, strange, and repulsive orientation.  However, it usually goes along the lines of expressing disgust for the female body in another demeaning soapbox tirade.  If someone is not attracted to women, fine; but these exaggerated discourses are unnecessary and harmful.

This is where the misogyny of gay rhetoric surfaces.

I find this misogynist tone in everyday speech uncomfortable and problematic.  Uncomfortable, because it leaves little room for those of us who are situated somewhere between/outside the gay/straight terms to express our desires honestly.  It has become taboo for a queer guy to admit that a girl is appealing (sexually or otherwise).  The dynamic created by this misogyny mirrors the fear that makes straight guys shout “No homo!” if their hand brushes against another’s.  Moreover, this speech is problematic because it tramples on many aspects of feminist struggles.  Throughout our history, women have been marked economically, socially, and essentially inferior to men based solely upon anatomy—submitting them to lack of credibility in public life, to objects for men [to conquer or to romanticize], and to insecurity.

To express such overwhelming disgust for the female bodies only reinforces this oppressive tradition—male dominance and misogynist rhetoric.  If gay guys are not attracted to women, fair enough; but the drawn out or exaggerated monologues are not necessary.

Historically and currently marginalized, LGBTQ must tirelessly fight for identity, voice, and validity on all fronts.  However, I’m concerned when the struggle to find identity by one group is based on antagonism toward another; when one oppressed demographic finds a way to stand by stepping on another.  Employing misogyny to combat heterosexism is hypocritical and simply unjust.  It polarizes identities and weakens movements for liberation by advancing the oppression of others.

Even though our histories are different, women and gay men suffer under similar forces which try to confine gender roles and control sexuality.  However, if we are secure enough in our own identities, we won’t need to degrade others in order to find a voice; we won’t have to push others aside in order to stand.  In fact, we can resist heterosexism more effectively if we refuse to perpetuate oppressive rhetoric and become allies for others in their struggles.  Such solidarity leaves little room for the tyranny of hierarchies.  Rather than imitating heterosexism, solidarity will enable us to stand with, rather than on, others and it will give us new strength in our fight for liberation.

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Our long-lost contributor Robert wrote a brilliant post a few years ago about gay house parties.  While many were upset at his vilification of flip flops on gay men (among other things) the accuracy with which he described the experience was uncanny.  I’m going to offer up a few additional tips for attending gay house parties, since I just hosted one and I’m feeling inspired.

Step 1:  Arrive in groups of 10, preferably already drunk

Parties are really nothing special, just a few people hanging out and socializing.  Not the stuff that our culture is based on, really.  Therefore, it’s not really important to be the least presentable when you arrive.  Gone are the days of pulling a freshly pressed shirt from the closet and dressing to impress.  Well, not totally gone.  You just work only to impress your friends at a pre-party, or even over dinner.  Those are the people you care about, really, so don’t bother being lucid or tucked in when you arrive at the main event.  Of course, since it’s a Saturday you’ll likely have been spending the entire day with your friends drinking, so why split up now?  Just all tumble in all at the same time reeking of vodka.

Step 2: Don’t bring anything

Since you’ve been drinking all day, purchasing more alcohol or other beverages to bring to the party is likely the last thing on your mind.  That’s okay.  Hosts at house parties are solely responsible for providing beverages and snacks.  They really enjoy spending a few hundred dollars on total strangers who will treat their homes like play pens. Really, it’s cool.

Step 3:  Ignore the women

Despite a party being hosted by gay men, you’ll likely meet some women there.  Unlike gay bars, which are generally completely uninviting to all but the loneliest of ladies, house parties are a good place for people of different genders to meet and mingle since they’re not in a space dedicated to the sole purpose of getting men laid.  Fear not, young man:  you can feel free to ignore these odd creatures.  I mean really, why would you want to talk to anyone whom you don’t want to sleep with?  What’s the point?  Ignore the fact that they might actually be queer ladies who are members of the larger community, one that is struggling for rights and suffering from any semblance of unity.  LGBT rights might be your day job, but honey it’s Saturday and you’re drunk.  Take the night off.

Step 4:  Criticize your friends’ drink choices in a loud and shrill voice

House parties, like bars, often offer a wide variety of beverages. However, like you do at a bar, you should continue to drink the same beverage you always do.  Vodka.  Vodka is the most homosexual of alcohols, and no matter where you find yourself, really, stick to it.  If one of your friends happens to be drinking something else, it’s your duty to call him out on it.  Don’t hold back, as we gays have an important homosexual agenda to pursue and it all starts unraveling if you’re drinking the wrong beverage. It doesn’t matter whether this scofflaw is standing right next to you or across the room:  make your objection known.  If you are at a loss for the correct objection, try something like, “Jack, why are you drinking (insert non-vodka drink here)? It’s so un-homosexual of you!”  And regardless of how close or far away your friend is, please yell this objection, and add some lisps at the right places.

Step 5:  Be the DJ

When you go out to a gay bar, you can be guaranteed to hear the same amazing music all the time.  It’s what makes a gay bar a gay bar, right?  So when you find yourself at a gay house party and they are playing music unfamiliar to you, you have every right to be offended. How dare a gay man play music outside of the traditional gay canon for a gay audience?  Doesn’t he know that if you can’t mindlessly bop your head to it, then it’s rubbish?  How rude of the host to assume you’d be interested in being exposed to new things.  The only solution in these situations is to get up and take the iPod in hand and start mucking around.  If they’re playing music off a computer, pull up any audio streaming site and start making a playlist.  Or start queueing up the latest tracks you saw at a video bar recently on YouTube and make a multi-sensory experience.  To ignore this massive slight would be the equivalent of stepping back in the closet.

Step 6:  Turn the bathroom into a playground

Perhaps the most fun room at a house party is the bathroom.  Not only can you drunkenly stare at a future trick’s junk while “saving time” sharing the toilet, but there are so many fun things to play with.  Add that to the fact that you’re behind closed doors, and really, there’s nothing stopping you from going at it.  First, check out the medicine cabinet and help yourself to anything even slightly recreational, including Adderall, Klonopin and Xanax.  Make sure you brush up on the names of the generic versions of all these so you can quickly evaluate if there is anything buzz-worthy.  Once you’ve popped a few pills, go ahead and look around for anything that could be a potential embarrassment to the host.  Find something really good, like an enema bottle or body lice shampoo, and fuck with it.  Place it on display on the back of the toilet or on a shelf.  If you can find a few embarrassing items, go ahead and arrange them into a sort of statue or try to make these items simulate butt sex.  You’re drunk and creative, right, you can figure it out.  Finally, you should really leave your mark and spill something.  Spill your own beverage, the sticky-sweeter the better, or perhaps some shampoo.  Oh, and make sure you drop all the hand towels on the floor.

Step 7:  Don’t bother introducing yourself to the hosts

People silly enough to host house parties are really saps, aren’t they?  They throw open their doors to their friends and those friends’s friends and get them all silly in liquid intoxicants.  They should expect their furniture to be destroyed, their personal items rifled through, their their music critiqued and their faith in humanity generally disrupted.  Why would you want to meet and chat with someone who would let people take advantage of them like that anyway?  Stick with your friends.  In general, it’s best to not even bother finding out who the hosts are, so you don’t feel the temptation to hide from them or pretend to need a refill as you spot them approaching.

Step 8:  Leave without saying thank you or goodbye

Once you’ve gotten drunk enough, decided it was time to hit the late-night club or found a hottie to hook up with, just head for the door.  Since you haven’t met the host, there’s no one for you to thank.  You’ll see your friends the next afternoon at brunch anyway, so it’s really best to get the heck outta there before someone notices it was you that showed up empty handed, ignored the strangers, criticized your friends, played with the music and fucked up the bathroom.  Just go.  It’s the nicest thing you could do for the host and his friends.

c. JScreationzs,

Check out Domina Vontana’s weekly column, Goddess Files, every Wednesday at 2 p.m.

Regulation city — You’re living in it. If it’s not the parking tickets, it’s the condo fees. If you’re lucky enough to rent and leave the yard work to someone else, it’s only seemingly free. Trust the apethetic administration of your local rental office to one up you every time. If you are wealthy enough to own a car and a parking space, you’re still going to take one in the groin every time you gas up. When did life get so expensive? No, no, no. When did we turn on one another? That’s what it really feels like. There’s a human at the end of that pipeline, at the beginning, and every weight station in between.

Taxes are just a metaphor for life, because everything is taxing. I used to believe that anything worth doing was going to take a little effort, but these urban attacks on my finances, a better job situation, and my personal life and time seem to be taking on mammoth porportions lately.

“What is the ratio of bullshit to existence that my mother intended for me to contend with in order to keep safe, sane and consensual?” I ask myself. Is it just the PMS, or that in the middle of rainy deadline driven April, I am finally ready to really set something or someone on fire. Finally.

If you take the bus to the only store in the area that sells the food your high maintenance cat requires, only to find the shelf empty. You end up breaking down and buying her the equivilent to kitty McDonald’s by Friday night. She leaves the evidence in the box the next morning so you can smell it to prove it. How do people with kids do it? I’m struggling to maintain my own standards, while the cinch ties are drawn around every free and reasonable bit of my daily grind.

People are getting weird and acting like petty bitches. I think we could all use a communal fuck in the ass to calm the hell down.

I’m tired of pretending to care when what I’m supposed to care about is only the slightest of an actual notion, and the rest is just an excuse to drink beer and get laid. I suppose that most of the world can take their draft beer  and their love life unspoken toward. Call me selfish, but I crave a little more mental sustenance before and after I put the meat between my legs.

If we’re every going to lighten up again, we need to put down the smartphone, stop sexting and face one another once again. There is a world of real people who are suffering because we are prone to excuses and distractions. Stop acting like a robot.

I lay awake until two in the morning, wondering which is worse: the endless arguments with my loved one since we decided to make it official (go figure) or the fact that sometimes I forget how lucky I am to live in the USA, as a woman, as a human. “I am the most selfish one of all,” I tell myself.

It doesn’t matter what you do; Someone will find a way to charge you for it so pick your battles wisely. Don’t piss on the stupid little people in your life that have the power to fuck you, little by little, until they force you to submit. These people usually have no other power in their life and they will use their job and your dependance on them to remind the universe again and again exactly how unhappy they are with their lot in life. Pay your bills on time, see the assholes less, right? “Do what it takes,” I keep telling myself, but it’s never that simple. White women, especially blond white women, get looked passed and through, all the time, by everyone. We’re an object. I’m an object, right?

Yes, and this object is going to pay her taxes because fees, bullshit, haters, taxes, and fights with your lover are a metaphor for life. As soon as I’m done filing there will be some do-gooder happy hour that will need attending, so I can scope out the PhD hopefuls and pick out my next butt buddy.

Sometimes, semantics matter; when it comes to discussions of gender and sexuality, they can speak volumes, which is why it bugs me when well-intentioned allies and commentators use the term “sexual preference.”

I know this isn’t exactly a new concern in the gay community, but as a recent search on Google can show, the term still gets used often in the mainstream media. Though the speaker may not realize it, the phrase “sexual preference” implies a choice in the matter; That in my case, I’m not attracted to guys but rather prefer them.

This vocabulary plays right into anti-gay advocates’ argument that sexual orientation is a choice; worse, it lends credence to the idea propagated by Exodus International and other dubious organizations that gay people must simply exercise willpower in overcoming the “mastery of sin” that supposedly makes us “give in” to the “temptation” of gay sexuality. By continuing to use the phrase “sexual preference” to denote sexual orientation, we legitimize the implication that sexual orientation is malleable. This does our community no good.

Speaking of one’s “sexual preference” recasts any sexuality that exists outside of the heteronormative paradigm as a beatable character flaw, as though a gay person elects to face a lifetime of discrimination because of some misguided, masochistic lust. Thus one’s “preference” is framed as a problem that can be solved, often by the dual salves of prayer and celibacy. This same thinking leads anti-gay crusaders to malign our “deviant lifestyle,” turning the fact of human sexuality into a question of morals. It’s our choice to be gay, and that choice is a wrong one. Why should the bigots change if we’re the ones who chose — preferred, even — to be “deviant” in the first place?

In fact, the notion of “sexual preference” is just as problematic as that of the “gay lifestyle.” Both phrases reject the very idea of sexual orientation, instead reducing gayness to an assumed set of learned behaviors and attitudes. What’s more, both phrases implicitly position heterosexuality as the virtuous standard for which we should all strive and from which we in the LGBT community “deviate.”

Someone who mentions “sexual preference” or who claims to support “the gay lifestyle” probably doesn’t mean to suggest that being gay is actually a choice. Nonetheless, our language reflects our beliefs. It is time we stop allowing the belief that gayness is a choice to pollute our vocabulary.

“Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology
Ain’t got time to make no apology
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a fire fight”

–“Search and Destroy” by the Stooges

In many ways, the cis gay & lesbian community and the trans community aren’t the best of friends. There are plenty of transphobic gays and lesbians, and the trans community hasn’t always embraced their non-heterosexual members.

I’m trans AND I’m queer. By “queer,” I mean the actual “I like sexual/romantic stuff with other guys who like guys.” There is an annoyingly present population of the trans male community who call themselves “queer,” but in actuality only are attracted to and have sex with women (sorry, chaps, but unless you’re into doing the horizontal tango with a member of the same gender, it really isn’t right to appropriate words like “queer” and “faggot” for yourselves).

Anyway, the point is that my situation is not exceptional. There are many of us who are caught between or identify with both the trans and GLBQ communities.  My fellow TNG writer, Sylvia Renee, has mentioned that she is both trans and not heterosexual. I can name others both close to me and not who are in same boat.  Not only that, but there are also cisgender GLBQ people who are in queer relationships with some of us (not to forget relationships between queer trans people).  Many of these partners are actually more involved in the trans community than I am (to be perfectly honest, because I am rather uninvolved). So not only are we feeling the pull of the divide, but our lovers may be as well.

By even suggesting that you remove the T from the GLB, you are asking some of us to pick between two facets of our identity.  In addition to that, making us have to fight an uphill battle on both sides as we fight for our rights not only as trans people, but also as queers…Separately.  Personally, that makes me feel really fucking invalidated.

Also in regards to the “gender studies students” comment made, just talk to us as human beings (rather than subjects) and as friends. You’ll learn a hell of a lot about us. It is really just as simple as that. I’m not a gender studies student either. I’m an Anthropology and Political Science student who has yet to take (nor even any desire to take) a class about gender theory. We’re not asking for “ideal.” we’re just asking for some attempt at educating yourselves.

You don’t have to be an expert to be an ally.

I had no idea what to expect but I was secretly hoping the song would suck. After the song “Speechless” from Gaga’s last album, part of me was expecting a grandiose epic only to be rivaled by Meatloaf’s “Paradise By The Dashboard Light.” Or I thought perhaps we would have another “Bad Romance” with queer-friendly lyrics. I must confess that Gaga defied every single one of my expectations. The last thing I expected “Born This Way” to be was the GAY ole song that it is.

Love her or hate her the appeal of Gaga to the younger generation may be that she puts a trendy, hipper face to the queer movement. Whether you like Gaga’s songs or not you have to admit that they are a pretty far cry from Diana Ross, Donna Summer, or Liza Minnelli. Even when Gaga drew from Madonna it was more from artsy dark Madonna than Junior Vasquez remix Madonna. Immediately when “Born This Way” hit the airwaves a furor ran through my gay friend’s Facebook status about how much the song sucked and how disappointed they were.

Perhaps people were disappointed that when Gaga addressed “Gay” she dressed it up in a song that sounded pretty damn stereotypically gay. And not in the cool way. If ever there was a gay anthem 101 prototype it most certainly could be “Express Yourself  (Shep Pettibone Single Mix)” meets Bronski Beat meets “Waterfalls” meets Donna Summer. The most insulting thing about “Born This Way” was the miscalculation Lady Gaga made in not realizing the “gay” that she’s presenting is exactly the gay we’re moving away from. It’s no wonder Elton John loved the song. He would. The world wanted a gay anthem that sounded like Lady Gaga, not Lady Gaga sounding like a stereotypical gay anthem.

As a gay songwriter that was actually “born this way” I reviewed my own output to see what song most described my take on being gay. Although it is not an anthem, my song “Do Me A Favor” from 2004 perfectly summed up my disillusionment and uncertainty with my own gay life. These were the lyrics:

Don’t treat me special ’cause I’m gay
Do me a favor
Don’t even notice
And if I’m holding hands with a guy
Do me a favor
Let us walk by

I fight with myself sometimes
Stupid faggots put your shirts on
Stupid idiot
How can I force you to like me?

Mr. XY spells boy with an “i”
He is spoon-fed
Generically flamboyant
Bad house – discoteque
Water bottle – tina head
I’m so frustrated

I fight with myself sometimes
Am I natural? Okay?
Since three I felt this way
I’m always sub-catagorized
I want a normal and simple life

So don’t treat me special cause I’m gay
Do me a favor – don’t even notice

Instead of ready-made sounding pseudo-gay anthems like “Born This Way” getting hyped I’d love to see more support for true queer artists expressing their own struggles. The song I wrote certainly would never burn up the charts. It was from an album I wrote in a week as a final project for a psychology class. As a gay man I am not comfortable with a rich, straight, white woman being my spokesperson and telling me what my anthem is going to be. I will write my own anthems. And my queer brothers and sisters will write my anthems too. In the words of one commenter I give “Born This Way” two paws down.

If anyone is interested in a free copy of the The Orange Songs, the CD containing my “Do Me A Favor” email me at deargloffy@gmail.com. It was a very personal acoustic album I made for myself and I have a lot of copies left. I’ll be happy to share them.

Buck Angel is the rare, non-exploited trans porn star.

In miles of sharp blue water coming in where she lies
The diving man’s coming up for air cause the crowd all love pulling dolly by the hair, by the hair
And she wonders how she ever got here as she goes under again”

–“Girls On Film” by Duran Duran

There comes a point when you stop jerking off and start actually thinking about what you’re watching (as fellow TNG writer Cyrus has pointed out). Or, in the search for said porn to jerk off to, you just kind of wonder about all the stuff you happen across (I nearly typed “come across,” but I realized that you can’t get away with that when writing about porn).

I’m trans and sometimes I like to watch other trans people get down and dirty.  Why?  Because it is an affirming experience that tells me I might not die sexually-isolated and alone because I happen to be trans.  It’s also because, just like cisgender people, transgender people can be goddamn sexy too (what a surprise, right?).  However, there is a rather serious and very apparent problem when it comes to these attempts at visual awesomeness.

The problem is that most “transsexual porn” is pretty fucked in their portrayals of trans people.  This is especially true in the treatment of trans women.  The fact is that most mainstream trans pornography is made for (and most often by) cisgender straight guys.  The women are treated as objects of fetish and forced into offensive labels such as “shemale,” “tranny,” and “chick with a dick.”   Since it is well-known that trans people face a multitude of issues when it comes to steady employment (way to forget about ENDA, Pelosi) and paying for medical treatment, it is always in the back of my mind that many of those women might be only doing those movies for survival money.  That just doesn’t jive well in my mind.

On the flip-side, trans men are pretty much nonexistent in the world of mainstream porn.  The most famous FtM porn star is Buck Angel, but he’s still kind of a niche figure.  And unlike many of the trans women in porn he is completely in control of his own image and how he is presented to the public.

And there are probably some of you currently reading this that are saying to your screens, “But what about the underground queer porn sites?”

Well those are a good start, but still suffer from many of the same issues in addition to a slew of other issues. Once again they are mainly run by cisgender people,  though usually cisgender queer or lesbian-identified women.  Also the porn tends to be either cis girl-on-cis girl or trans guy-on-cis girl…And everyone in it looks like a hipster.  That’s great and all, but that really doesn’t reflect what the majority of my attractions are and certainly doesn’t completely reflect the many kinds of queer people and the seemingly infinite ways that we have sex.

When I said that I like to see trans people have sex, I also meant that I like to see trans people have sex with other trans people.  Because, you know, it isn’t an unknown thing for us to date/fuck others in the community (as I have written about before).  I would really like to see more porn that reflects that. And I have heard the same sentiment echoed by others.  I’m allowed to be a picky bastard about my porn. So is everyone else.  It says a lot I can more easily find crazy, seizure-inducing tentacle porn with furries than it is to find a clip of a trans guy with a trans woman.

We’re partly starting to head in the right direction when it comes to pornographic depictions of transgender people; but when it comes to the mainstream porn world, just like in daily life, we have yet to break out of the role of being fetishized and exploited for who we are.

Me and my friend Jocelyn: 35 and not dead yet.

Three days, five hours, twenty seven minutes, and thirty seconds until I am dead. As a gay senior citizen in my last moments of being 35 I’ve accepted my gay visibility officially ends when I turn 36 on Saturday. I will be exchanging my fashionista gear for an invisibility cloak. I will climb under a rock and fully accept that no one will find me attractive or desirable again because I’ll be thirty six. I managed to creak my way through my early and mid thirties but as I get closer to forty it’s time to accept it’s over.

Recently my friend and I met a young gay boy at Starbucks. He was very inquisitive about our lives. When he found out we were both single 35-year-olds a dark cloud descended upon his face. He gave a very nuanced and dramatic shameful shake of his head and said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” We asked why he was sorry. He replied, “Oh my God, just the fact that you are both single at 35.  It’s just really sad. I feel sorry for you.” It never occurred to the twink that we were having the time of our lives.

As a gay male I always assumed I was exempt from the same expectations that pressured straight people. Was I incorrect? As gay males are we faced with a different version of the same expectations? Instead of a house in the ‘burbs perhaps we are expected to be shacked up in trendy apartments with our life partners. Instead of two kids are we supposed to have two cute little dogs? It is quite standard to see the statement, “No one over thirty five” in gay chat sites. After Saturday I guess I’m fucked or more accurately NOT getting fucked.

Often when I write about torturous love affairs and unrequited love commenters will suggest that I just “grow up.” The comment boxes are telling me that mental dischord and romantic confusion is shameful past the age of 29. Am I the only gay male in my 30s still in the process of ironing out my mental wrinkles? Why all the heckling?

After Saturday whenever I fill out a form I’ll have to check a different box.  The 36 to 50-years-old box. Luckily I won’t have to fill out any paperwork next time I go to a club: 36 in gay years?I’d have to check the box “dead”.

“So this is the new year
And I have no resolutions
For self-assigned penance
For problems with easy solutions”

–“The New Year” by Death Cab For Cutie

New Year’s Eve, just like Christmas, has gone from a holiday of childhood wonder and joy to something I barely tolerate.  Actually, I am not sure which one I dislike more, but at least Christmas involves getting presents…Though New Year’s Eve does give me the option of not having to be around my relatives at all (which, in this season, is very much a welcome break).

I am not really one for parties, so the celebration aspect means little to me.  The fact that these parties tend to have free food and good company are the main reasons I even show up.  But it could be Arbor Day and if you promised me free food, I’d still make an appearance.  I have to admit that the New Year has always brought this increase in the feeling of loneliness for me, as it does for a lot of people, I suppose.  It is well-known that suicides go up around the winter holidays.

Perhaps I have been in school so long I now divide everything mainly by semesters instead of years.  The sudden change in year always gets me confused for a while…I recently looked back at my notes from a Linguistics class I took last Spring and noticed that quite a few times I wrote the date as 2009 instead of 2010, even as late as March.  Actually, I have a history of this, and it is only the year part that I have trouble with at times. I guess the change of an entire year doesn’t warrant much of a change for me.  (And I guess it doesn’t either for the Toothpaste For Dinner guy: http://www.toothpastefordinner.com/030304/the-chinese-new-year.gif)

It is just a day (and usually a cold day here); everyone goes nuts about it, stores suddenly have weird hours or are closed altogether, and people make promises they aren’t really going to keep.  What are we celebrating anyway?  It isn’t like we are celebrating some historical person, a battle or victory, the independence of a nation, or when our taxes have to be filed.

Is there something that I am missing about the change from December 31^st to January 1^st?

Photo Credit: Lindsay Marshall Photography

I’m marking my calendar for 21 December 2012.

Do you know what’s going to happen on that date? Some folks believe that it might be the end of the world (or at least the end of the world as we know it). This belief is based on an interpretation of the Mayan Long Count Calendar, which those forward-thinking Mayans thoughtfully planned ahead all the way until that faithful date, a fact that has spawned conspiracy theorists and others to start the countdown. It’s not just the crazies, either. Some Christians love to latch onto End of the World scenarios, mostly because even if the Earth is collapsing in a series of devastating eruptions and floods, they’ll at least be able to say that the Bible was right.

I’m not looking forward to 21 December 2012 because I’ve been persuaded by the Left Behind series to believe that I’ll have a direct ticket to Heaven when the Rapture arrives, in fact, by the standards set in the book and followed by Rapture-theory subscribing Christians, I’m one of those who will be left behind on this Earth, I think because I haven’t accepted Jesus into my heart, but I’m not totally clear on that. I’m looking forward to 21 December 2012, and the two years or so between now and then, because its fun to think about the end of the world. Don’t take me for some kind of Emo-kid when I say this, although I liked the Y2K scare, too. I honestly just work better with a rapidly approaching deadline.

We look at everything in our lives as progression, in stages. We maintain five year plans, think about second careers, imagine Barack Obama’s second term when maybe we see the man we know him to be emerge. We don’t really assess the now – evaluate our accomplishments to date – which may mean a hearty slap on the back or a frustrated kick in the ass. We talk about the effects of global warming and how in 150 years our future spawn (bio or adopted) won’t have Elm trees or will have never touched a panda, but what does that do for us? Inspire us to throw a diet coke can into a recycle bin rather than in a creek? When deadlines are so far in the future, its way easier to put things off. Like I said, I work better under pressure.

Imagine having two years left to accomplish everything you wish to see in your lifetime. Everything you want to cross off that list that you’ll show to god, or to chocolate (whichever you truly believe in) to demonstrate your impact on the Earth (never mind that the Earth is no longer how you left it). Do you want to go back to school? Do you want to run a marathon? Do you want Obama to win the 2012 election? Then apply, train and campaign.

Do you sit and wait for Gay marriage to be legal in your state? Then get involved with your state’s legislature, write op-eds, create street art, make t-shirts, or move to a state where it’s legal and get hitched to your Beau. Do something. Do you look forward to the day when the gay rights movement is history? Then do your part now – don’t plan for what the world will be like in 2020 – there might not be a 2020.

On the other hand, I don’t recommend that you take out $150,000 in loans that you don’t intend to pay back, because even if there is only 2 years left in the world we still don’t want to act a fool. Maybe especially in that case – if you had another 50 years in you, a couple really foolish decisions might be less noticeable under all that good stuff you have accomplished. But, if you assume you only have 2 years to go, a big flub will most likely stick out like ticket for public urination.

Think about it. This is a perfect deadline.

What would T-Rex have done the day before the meteor? What will you do before 21 December 2012?

I have a theory and many of you will disagree with me. Some may not even know what I’m talking about, but bear with me: Vida Metropole, an ultra high-class gym in the heart of DC’s gayborhood, is actually a cult. What looks from the outside like a perfectly normal gay workout facility, with a clean, pleasant lobby and an attached salon, is in fact a brain-washing facility for DC’s gorgeous gay elite.

It starts when you go inside. Has anyone seen the show “Dollhouse?” Where an elaborate underground facility exists beneath L.A. that turns normal people into programmable living dolls? Vida looks just like it.With DJ music and colored panel lighting borrowed directly from either the bar Mova or the circuit party lounge of a Virgin Air flight, the main gym is like a lux version of Morpheus’ cave-shaking end-of-the-world party from The Matrix Reloaded. It’s also one story underground.

Beyond that is a spa-like locker room replete with granite counters-tops, stainless steel fixtures and womb-like showers with body scrub dispensers and rain-fall spigots. If you make it out of this modern-day Lotus Eater’s island you can travel through the land of flat-screen TV’s displaying unsettling platitudes like “Would you rather be right, or happy?” to the queasily serene lap pools and tepid, co-ed, molded-white-plastic sauna straight from the Starship Enterprise.

And if that doesn’t sound like your idea athletic experience, be warned: It’s coming for you.

The owner of the Vida franchise, David Von Storch, also owns another nearby building (1612 U St.) that has housed rival gym Results since 1994. Results’ lease runs out in March and Von Storch will be taking the building back, kicking out all of its tenants and building a gym that sounds about as fun as a 40-hour Ken Burns documentary on moss. Besides presumably adding that Vida flair to what is already a great gym — no frills, great lighting and it actually feels like an athletic facility — the new Vida will feature 13,000 sq. foot pool with cabanas, fire pits and a lounge. Those things sound great for a weekend in The Keys, but I have literally never thought to myself “Know what my yoga class is missing? Sunscreen and a funnoodle!”

I should say here that people have every right to choose whichever gym they want, but I have no idea where the idea came from that the instant way to appeal to the gays is to make everything ultra-high end and indistinguishable. If I wanted all the features of Vida, I’d be going to a spa. If I wanted to throw on old Adidas shorts and sweat for an hour I’d go to a gym. And it’s sad to know that there will be one fewer of those gyms in DC come March.

While Von Storch has every right to take the building back, since it is his, I’m dismayed to see his aesthetic spreading beyond the bounds of Logan Circle. Vida, at its core, annoys me for one reason: It makes assumptions about what gay people like. His A-List appeal is contained not just within the “luxurious to the point of not being athletic” vibe of Vida, but even his own public persona. Von Storch financed a trailer for his own reality show which is cut from the same cloth as Bravo’s The A-List: New York, where a bunch of attractive men tromp around shirtless and talk about how handsome he is. (Good fucking god do I wish I could embed that video here, but it’s worth watching on youtube if you want a treat.)

David Von Storch is clearly a very talented businessman and has probably pumped more revenue into the city, and the community, than I could hope to in my whole life. But the loss of Results just means that there is one fewer space in DC for gay people to congregate without being assaulated by all the stereotypical, overbearing niceties that we are assumed to want.

Besides, when there are cabanas it is safe to assume that cabana boys will be close behind. And if that happens I’m moving to Richmond and not looking back.

Gay men, raise your hands if you like when straight people throw around the word “fag.” What about right in front of you? Ok, then what if they throw around the word fag and then wonder why you are offended by it?

For more years than I care to remember I lived next door to a guy who insisted that “fag” was a colloquialism on par with “soda” or “hecka.” So when he was reading a snowboarding magazine in front of me, and threw out a comment about those “skiiing faggots” who messed up his runs, he could never quite understand why I was annoyed (the first time) or outright livid and about to throw him out of my dorm (the millionth time.)

Point being, if a word is historically offensive to a very large group of people, and if they have more-or-less collectively decided it’s not OK to use, it no longer matters what the outside, non-offended party thinks about it. Just saying the word in mixed company becomes an insult on par with what the word initially meant. For instance, no matter what you feel about “The N Word” you probably won’t use it casually. If you do you are making a point whether you want to or not.

That’s my feelings on fag and faggot. I use them, but so help me god if a straight person tries to use that casually around me. It’s not Ok. And I suspect a lot of other gay men feel this way. Why, then, has the word “tranny” remained so prevalent in the lexicon? When I try to call gay men on this they usually say that its a funny word, or that it’s used all the time, or that they don’t mean it as an insult.

I have found “Tranny” to be increasingly ubiquitious in popular culture. And it is never used gently. Tranny has become a go-to word for anyone who is a freak, a mess or generally needs to be put in their place. It hurts all of us when any faction of the queer community becomes a shorthand for an insult, and I imagine this is doubly irritating for the trans community. To be a punchline in pop culture, while much of your so-called “community” laughs along, has got to be awful.

I guess my plea here is for people to consider that word among the upper eschelons of words that are simply not thrown around casually for their painful and pejorative connotations. I shouldn’t have to say it, but I hope that one more voice in the conversation could make a small difference.

Trying to access TNG just lead to a popup screen telling me that the website had been blocked for adult content. Adult content? Granted we are hardly Dora The Explorer (‘Clitora the Explora’ might even be more accurate) but TNG takes pains to be accessible everywhere so that our readers can find us. Hence no porn, no sex ads and most of our graphic content comes in the form of words and not images. However, the dirty words are still there so I checked a comparable website to determine if we were being pigeonholed for being gay.

Turns out, we were! I was able to access Jezebel with no problems. Jezebel, the site that has the word “sex” in its tagline, and writes about the subject even more than I do. (Yes, it’s possible.) So Amtrak is able to allow the aforementioend Jezebel, a site that discusses sex and bodies without edging into porn. So why not allow us?

I’m going to guess, as I always do, that it’s because we’re gay. I am very vocal about the fact that we can’t drop the “sex” from “homosexual” without suffering serious repercussions to our freedom, but gay is an identity as well as an act. That is to say, discussions of sexuality aren’t automatically about sex. Modern Bride is all about heterosexual coupling, and the “heterosexual lifestyle” and the prelude to what I’m sure will be the couple’s very first time having intercourse. However, I highly doubt it would be blocked by Amtrak. In fact, there is a good chance your grandmother has read that filth. And enjoyed it!

This is made all the more ironic by the fact that Amtrak recently unveiled an ad campaign targeted expressly towards the LGBT market. I’ve long felt that so-called “checkbook activism,” (that is, demanding your rights by revoking your money to those who hate you) is an effective means of spreading equality but it seems that Amtrak is trying to have it both ways by taking our cash, but still qualifying our very existence is inappropriate.

So next time I take Amtrak I’m going to touch myself in the dining car, or have sex with a man in first class. If I can’t read information gay opinions on their wifi network, then I’ll just have to give everyone else on the train something to talk about.

Being homo places me into a minority population. Being a sober homo with zero interest in drunken debauchery or cocktails makes me a minority within a minority. As my friends endlessly post invitations online to meet them for drinks I prepare myself to be the asshole that just wants a Diet Coke.

When I was young my mother went into recovery for drugs and alcohol. When mom toted me to those AA meetings my eight-year-old mind decided not to follow in her footsteps. As I became an adult I acknowledged my addictive personality with a predisposition to chemical dependence. Not to mention I am cheap. Five dollars for an alcohol drink that tastes like turpentine? No thanks, I have an appointment with Dr. Pepper.

Despite the fact that I don’t drink, I’ve never been comfortable with the “straight edge” subculture. I find the judgmental faux-superiority of that scene simple minded and cruel. Of course I personally think not drinking is a great choice for people to make. I also think that outside of my head it really doesn’t matter what I think.

I am a single 35-year-old. I wish to continue to hanging out with people in my peer group. I wish to continue ruling the motherfucking dance floor. I am not ready to get tucked into the back of a library or the gay men’s chorus.  I don’t mind if a future boyfriend gets drunk. As long as he doesn’t mind that I will always be designated driver.

I raise this Diet Coke in a toast to all the single and sober homos of the world.  Anyone else struggling with this?

By Øyvind Johnsen, taken from Wikimedia Commons

“Go ahead and say it, call me a fuckin’ wimp
Just cuz I’ve got a different kind of life that I wanna live
You can criticize my ideals and my priorities
But ultimately I don’t give a flying fuck what you think of me”

–“I Quit” by the Descendents

A friend asked me to write about this topic, which just goes to prove that I will actually discuss something in particular if you ask or suggest it!

It is no real secret that I have a profile on a popular dating site.  It is also happens that I am open about being trans on that profile. Granted, this openness probably causes most people (I find this especially true of gay guys, and I don’t even try with straight girls) to automatically dismiss me as a guy they would not even want to just talk to, regardless of similar interests. So I guess that I pay quite a bit for my upfront honesty. Though if I didn’t mention my transition status, people would think that I’m underage due to my appearance. Trust me, it has happened.

It could probably be safely said that most, if not all, trans people (whether gay, lesbian, straight, et. al.) are very much aware of the knowledge that we can be subject to frequent rejection as a romantic/sexual partner just because of that one aspect of ourselves.

“Would that cute girl down by the end of the bar still be smiling and winking at me when I come out to her?”

“I totally wrote a message to this cute guy who also likes contemplating sexual politics, Russian literature, and pet lizards…But then he looked at my profile and wrote that he ‘would never date a tranny’”.

These are just tame insults when you think about the fact that there is the very real danger of being harassed, beaten, or even killed because of being transgender.

And there are those who, when they approach us with some sort of dating/sexual interest, they treat us only as a fetish, an experiment, or some dirty little secret to be ashamed of.  There are also those who are just so damn ignorant and disrespectful that it isn’t worth it (Note: asking crude questions about a trans person’s genitalia and/or medical history firmly puts you in this category, as does refusing to respect identity and pronouns; also, how many times must it be told to the gay and lesbian communities that liking or sleeping with a trans person of the same gender doesn’t make you straight?!).  The dating world at large comes off as very unwelcoming of trans people, and makes me want to give up entirely…Almost.

Looking at my inbox, I have noticed that the majority of the people who have either replied back or messaged me first (either out of romantic or friendship interest) have been other trans people.  Mainly these have been from other queer/gay trans men, but in the past few months I have also been a part of some lovely flirtatious banter with a few gorgeous trans women who happen to like neurotic, nerdy writers.

Some people might insist that this is merely “settling”, but I wholly disagree; some trans people date other trans people out of a mutual understanding and unconditional respect of their bodies and identity, which is a reward to find in any person.  It is great not to have to go through Trans 101, and have someone who is more likely to truly understand dysphoria and transition frustrations, in addition to maybe having the same interests and being attractive (because trans people, just like cisgender people, are capable of having every possibly of careers, levels of education, physical traits, loves, views, etc…Because we really are regular people).  Not to say that there are not trans people who are total assholes (*cough*conservative Republican Donna Milo*cough*) or that two individuals who happen to be trans will even like or get along with each other, it isn’t like any other group who shares one uncontrollable thing (like race or sexual orientation) in common automatically get along with each other.  I can honestly say that I do not instantly like everyone who shares things like that with me…But I am well-known to be rather misanthropic.

If we usually tend not to be appreciated by other people, why not go looking inward more often?  You snooze, you loose…And it is real easy to get awfully tired of waiting for basic acceptance and respect while looking for someone watch old movies and hold hands with.