Gay Society’s One Percent

Gay Society’s One Percent

Last Saturday night, I was prancing around in my black jump suit, unbuttoned down as far as the law would allow, at the monthly Pig Dance at my favorite watering hole, the Ramrod in Lauderdale, where the median age is 43. I watched with my usual cynicism all those fellow aging leather men, some hot, some just delusional, shake their steroided bods like they were 20, while the physically less blessed ogled. Wondering when we were all going to finally grow up, and wondering whether these creatures were among our culture’s one percent. The guys who some, or maybe many of us revere or place on a pedestal at the very pinnacle of our gay sub-culture:

The incredibly handsome who forget they got their looks by a roll of the genes dice.

The incredibly wealthy, some earned, others born into it, who make sure everyone knows they’ve got it, from their quarterly visits to the cosmetic surgeon they boast about, to their beachfront condos in Lauderdale and Fire Island, and, oh, yea, the young hottie (a new one each season) by their side.

The massive muscle men who spend four hours a day in the gym or every discretionary dollar on steroids because they either have mindless jobs or no job at all and live on the dole – disability check, 78 year old lover – take your pick.

The cute guys with the fifty dollar haircuts, 22 inch waists, washboard abs they were born with and, when they aren’t prancing around near naked on the beach, sport the latest overpriced GQ outfit. Or flick around on Pig Dance Saturdays in those low cut singlets with their ass cheeks hanging out that go for sixty five bucks a pop.  All on a Macy’s clerk’s salary.

Humpy porn stars, responsible for thousands of dirty cum rags every day, but who can’t or won’t work at much of anything else and whose nine inch dicks are worth selling replicas of – to use as paperweights of course.

The hot numbers cruising in those hot sports car convertibles, courtesy of Daddy.

The guys who live, breathe and shit The Life from RSVP cruises to the latest Leather Fest, but don’t know or care where this country is headed.

Look, I’m not saying that it’s bad to look your best, take care of your body, or have some fun. But after awhile, doesn’t ego for ego’s sake and deifying male perfection become just a little tired?

I mean, shouldn’t our one percent include or even be dominated by:

Couples who lead quiet, unassuming lives, work hard, spend sensibly, with the only difference between them and the rest of the world is that they’re two men?

The white middle class gay man who adopts a black 17 year foster kid with autism because he wants to?

The guy who has nothing to monetarily gain from caring for a dying parent or partner but knowing he did right?

The guys who don’t make much in education or health care but do it because they want to actually help somebody else – people they don’t even know?

The lovers who grow old together without caring about their crows feet or other men? Or care for one another to the end when one of them can no longer wipe his ass?

So who’s your one percent?

You decide.

I know who mine is.

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