What do shrinks advise us? Everything in moderation. Well, in gay life, there’s a special breed of us who believe moderation is for Reagan Republicans and Excess is good. The guys I like to label “The Extremos.”
You know who I’m talking about:
• the boys who have nothing intelligent to say if it doesn’t have something to do with the gay scene or tricking (“What, there’s a war in Iraq?”) or isn’t loaded with double entendres;
• the super gym bunnies who juice up with their morning coffee but feel they are never ever big enough even as they flex on the beach for attention (and get it);
• leather men who won’t go grocery shopping without their chaps on or don’t know when they’ve gotten too old or too fat to look anything but ridiculous;
• the twinks who talk non-stop pop culture and blow their dough on frivolities;
• piercing addicts with enough metal on them to be their own aisle at Home Depot;
• the chain smokers and chain drinkers who make the bars and 7-11 rich;
• web addicts chatting and camming and jerking away even in the office, hiding their dicks behind some file folders just in case the boss pops in (when I was working in the pre phone app dinosaur age, I had to schedule with myself to take a piss);
• guys whose only purpose in life is to fuck, get high and fuck, fuck and get high, and lead the frocking gay life of cruises, campgrounds, clubs, white parties and schlock jobs – with three bucks in their checking account – long after the botox doesn’t work anymore.
Career? Family? Responsibility? Old age?
You talkin’ to me?
Take, for instance, the guy I saw meandering Sebastian Beach, Lauderdale’s gay sandbox, the other day. Not a bad looker, he strutted onto the beach in eighty five degree weather in high laced leather boots and faded fatigue shorts with the stereotypical chain running from his belt into his right pocket (Bottom?). And he had intentionally torn the back of his shorts so his black bikinied butt was in full view even before he disrobed. (Bottom? You betcha.)
Or the guy on the gay strip at Haulover, the nude beach outside Miami, who wore tats from the top of his shaved head to the bottom of his toes. Yes, including his dick. Sure, tats can be sexy, but, come on – your dick? And just to make sure he got noticed, he was adorned with a few external accessories like a nose ring, tongue piercing, eyebrow piercings, PA, nip rings and a couple more metal loops through his balls. Yikes! Talk about cock, ball and tit torture. And he was a trader at Bear Sterns. Imagine if he worked for a tat shop. Betcha he had a strip and search cubicle with his name on it in airport security.
So why do we do it? To get attention? Don’t give a fuck what people think? Express ourselves like some friggen walking gay art show? Try to stand above all the background noise? And in the process only become another clone?
O.K., O.K., live and let live, however people want to dress or act is their fucken business, not mine. I know, I know. And I’ll be the first to say being gay is in our DNA.
But does that mean “gay” must dominate our entire persona?
Monogamy: Another Gay Myth?