The pride of 1999

“Do you have an opinion; a mind of your own? Well, I’ve run out of patience; I couldn’t care less…”
Garbage, “Special.”

I’m really sure “gay” isn’t the right word for it…

The music is loud, and his perception is distorted by the interaction of the multiple drugs he’s ingested. His eyes cause the other men dancing around him to slow down, float, and double. Anonymous hands and parts brush him, fueling his amphetamine bliss. His pupils are wide and he sees the answers he seeks, but it’s only fleeting, as the music and interaction takes him quickly elsewhere. He will only remember flashes.

His heart is strained from the cocaine cocaine. His mouth is dry and his penis flaccid. To the other men, he is so cool… as they neither know nor do they wish to know any more than the superficial. His package is a perfect cliché, the ultimate gay fantasy. He is proud, so fucking proud to know the cool bars and best drink specials and the "A-Gays” with their superior attitudes and the fabulous parties and the prettiest boys who always have the best drugs, their faces touched up with just a hint of the most expensive male makeup available.

Later, he has yet another anonymous hook-up with the hottest guy in the bar. The actual sex isn’t important, just the motions. He can drink more than the rest with the help of his choice of drugs. His jeans fit his ass so well. His family misses him, but they are far away now, of no concern. The trick is rich, with a convertible and a condo by the park. He has done this many times before, also.

He claims to be a model artist, but waits tables for the coke that rules him. Hours later, he wakes up, emotions and serotonin drained, the guilt he claims he doesn’t possess rears its head, and he leaves without getting the rich trick’s number. He knows he’ll see him again and they’ll date, because, in his delusion, he knows this is the one with which he’ll spend the rest of his life. The next night at the beer bust, the rich trick doesn’t even look his way. He pretends to be shocked and devastated and justifies his latest binge with his latest heartbreak. His friends, family, and co-workers will pay the price in bitterness later for even attempting to give a shit. And he is so very proud. Yes he is.

He wonders why more people don’t like him. When he closes his eyes, the gnawing blackness overtakes his being, ever so slowly. His abyss has its very own soundtrack in the muffled beats of the club music he can barely remember. He finds a certain comfort on the dance floor, dancing with his shirt off with other tweaked shirtless boys who he’s already fucked. They are all one great big ball of confusion all heading toward the same end.

Pride? You’re proud? Don’t you dare speak for me, pricks. I too, am gay, but not your way. There are others, who, like me, like and love ourselves more than that. Clique-ism is not pride. “Community” is not alcohol or alcohol-establishment driven. Blind acceptance of stereotypical behavioral patterns is not pride. Investing all of one’s identity into sex and sexuality is not pride. Will there ever be a parade for people like me? If there is, I’m sure there won’t be any drink specials.