Gayer than thou.

Often times I don't feel that I'm very gay.

I'm a princess, yes. But that doesn't necessarily equate with the mainstream notion of "gay." Nearly every pair of jeans I own cost less than $50. I don't wear loafers. I'm much more comfortable in "working class" environments (with the understanding that in NYC the working class is, for the most part, commercial rather than industrial--who does manual labor in the new millennium?).

The foregoing are all subjective and debatable, but perhaps most importantly, my social life is confined largely to the leather community and contacts I've made therefrom. Whatever else it is, that social circle is undeniably a bit outside of the "norm" of gay culture.

Anyhow, this weekend I'm in DC visiting Scooter. He and I go way back, which is another blog post, maybe tomorrow. Once upon a time we tore up the Kansas City leather scene. Scooter, however, has the ability to move outside the leather social scenes and into the mainstream. It's a thing I envy and admire, and on occasions when I visit, enjoy moving around in his wake.

So we went shopping yesterday and tore up Pentagon Row. We took over the Denim Bar, which is staffed by faux hipsters who didn't know how to deal with a couple queens who like to lounge while discussing the relative ass benefits of each pair of jeans. I left with a very cute pair of painted-on jeans...no, I don't need another, but I didn't have this particular blue wash yet. Then we hit the maul and camped it up with the over-gymed queen in Guess and found some startling deals at FCUK. I bought the most adorable blue corduroy jacket for like 70% of its original price...holla for not paying retail! We shopped so much that we were nearly late getting home to get ready for our evening's festivities.

We arrived at the DC Gay Mens' Chorus looking very dashing. Scooter was in some new slim cut jeans, a blue and white shirt layer from Guess, and a green military shirt-cut jacket. I was in jeans, a grey Salvage print thermal, a light yellow Banana button down, and the blue FCUK cord jacket. We both looked hot and terribly, terribly gay. We heard the Fauré Requiem and the Rutter Gloria, as well as some old gay mens chorus standards. The audience insisted on applauding between movements, which was odd, but overall it was a lovely evening. I even ran into an old acquaintance from Kansas who works on pipe organs, so we were able to dish about the National Cathedral for a little. Fun!

The afterparty is where things really got gay, if you can believe it. Someone told Scott that I looked like I was from Manhattan! It was an oddly triumphant moment to realize that I could be so convincingly mainstream NYC gay that I might fool someone into believing it. Of course the façade would never hold up in the city, but that's hardly the point--for a moment, several states away, it worked.

Later, at The Eagle, a bear from Philadelphia told me I'd be really hot if I'd just lose the angry, bitter attitude. I wondered, then, whether it might not have been the clothes that fooled them. Ouch. I staggered back to Scooter's place and thoroughly passed out on the couch.

Perhaps I'm meant for NYC more than I care to admit. What a terrifying thought. I don't want to be that gay.


P.S. Shout out to my Heeb-boo! Love you, Big Papa.