Love my way

 

Because I need to post something for November 2020. 

Part 2 of my Elio and Oliver mixtape, made for a friend's birthday, although I secretly suspect he has not and will not listen to my lovingly crafted, slightly self-indulgent oeuvre.

Mornin' glory

 

 

"And glory to my hot young boyfriend, Brandon!"*

 

* Fez not included; some assembly required.

Suddenly last summer

This is a recent mixtape I completed as a birthday gift for a friend of mine, who previously in these pages I've dubbed The Italian American, although that label does an exceedingly poor job of conveying anything about his personality. In some ways, it's more of an ironic label, at least if I even remember what irony is at this point, thank you very fucking much Alanis Morissette! (Just kidding, girl. You know I love you. Like a friend.)

We both enjoyed the movie and the book, Call Me by Your Name, although I think IA may have enjoyed both more than me. Increasingly I find I have a somewhat problematic relationship with media portrayals of the G in LGBT+ lives. However, I don't think it's so much the media's take that bothers me; It's more the wishy-washy, fuzzy-wuzzy, hyper-fluid, contemporary take on sexuality and gender identity.

No one seems to want to be Gay with a capital G anymore. Every identity, every gender seems highly mutable. Perhaps that's as it should be: The era I came out in (1980-1983) feels like a thousand years ago (and, let's face it, it was 40 years ago, a couple of lifetimes if we were peasants in the Middle Ages) and represented a very different time in gay life. Pre-AIDS for one thing but also in the midst or even a little post-liberation, a time when gay men seemed to know who they were and what they wanted--and that was to be men who unapologetically loved men. Gay identity was a political statement as well as a personal identity. We had to be united to get across who we were--sure of ourselves and our sexuality (this is not a phase!); men who wanted to be men and not women (I'm not a transvestite!); men who knew how to have fun (sometimes discreetly, sometimes not) but who knew how to present themselves so as to gain respect and further the cause of our safety and equality.

Maybe that's all an illusion. Maybe sexuality and identity were more fluid then than we realized, but back then the bisexuality of men often seemed like an excuse not to commit to being gay and marriage to a woman felt like a betrayal to the cause. That was perhaps way too rigid a view, but the rigidity was there to push us and our rights forward. No waffling! No backsliding! No second-guessing! We're here, we're queer, get used to it!

The rigidity could be chafing and stifling, even to me. It's not that I was interested in women or, other than for a couple of weeks after acknowledging my sexuality and figuring out how to explain it to my parents and friends, that I considered myself bisexual. I am not. I am a solid Kinsey 6, or at most/least a Kinsey 5.75. I can be intellectually attracted to women from time to time, although I'm not sure about physically, and I have no intention of exploring any other possibilities at this late date in life. And I don't feel as though I've missed a thing. If anything, when I think about what I missed, I recall missed opportunities to meet men, get to know men, date men, and have sex with men (although admittedly not exclusively in that trajectory)--and I recall missed opportunities to travel more, where I would have likely met men, got to know men, dated men, and had sex with men.

The stifling part for me is that I often wanted to date and be in love more than I wanted to have sex with more men. I had my share of encounters, sure, but sex, even when I was at my peak {assuming I had one, that is) has never been a hobby or a mission for me. I also think that what rapidly became the gay identity of the 1980s and '90s--well-to-do white urban gay men and their hangers-on (the party boys, the muscle studs, the lovers, just add rainbow flags)--fell flat for me. I didn't have the money, I didn't have the body, I didn't have the ego and extroversion, and I didn't have the interest to be like everyone else, at least for more than a fleeting moment.  

The '70s and early '80s liberation and the '80s and '90s Reaganomics/Dynasty/Pet Shop Boys approach to gay life both seem très passé nowadays. Subsequent generations, post-AIDS crisis, appear to enjoy the freedom created, but the old man in me questions whether anyone coming out after 1992 or so feels any of the responsibility. I see stuff nowadays--the outrageous characters on RuPaul's Drag Race (the Canadian version in heavy rotation here at the moment), the predominance of trans identity in the media, the fluidity of gender ("some days I feel like a man, some days I feel like a woman"--so you understand what it's like to be paid less for the same or more work and fear being sexually assaulted wherever you are, including your own home?)--that makes me cringe. And it makes me feel very old. I always strove fro normalcy, respect, responsibility, permanence, and even a certain level of masculinity. None of that seems to matter anymore.

No, Gay with a capital G life hasn't been a bed of orchids or tulips for me. Sometimes it's felt more like a field of dandelions. While I've employed the beautiful ideal of men loving men as one of my guiding stars in my life, it can sometimes be a lonely journey. Some men can't love you. Some men only want to have sex--all friction and no feeling. Some men stay true to the rigid limitations of masculine power and dominance, even when given a opportunity to be free of these bonds and experience a transformative life. And some men just don't understand you--and you don't understand them.

Truth be told, there never was a choice, there was no fluidity, no in-between state of being: I am Gay with a capital G. It is who I am, and I am proud of that reality and that I've dealt with it reasonably well and lived the best life I could live under sometimes trying, sometimes dire, and sometimes happy circumstances.

So even Call Me by Your Name makes me somewhat uncomfortable as the movie perhaps more than the book implies a choice and a mutability of sexuality that I never felt were part of my reality. But, hey, maybe it's OK--it is the reality for some for sure. It's just that I find the idea of men loving men exclusively and determinedly greatly diminished and undervalued in the current milieu. Maybe we had it our way for too long--we set the standard, we set the course, and expected everyone to comply with our worldview. Maybe this represents a deep generational change, and I represent an old guard that can't get beyond its suddenly evaporating status and privilege. Maybe I'm in the wrong. Or maybe I'm not, but to quote our illustrious Fearless Leader, "It is what it is."

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the mixtape. I took a couple of songs from the soundtrack--French and Italian pop hits from the early 1980s--and expanded upon that, trying to represent the story and the scenes through song. Some of it likely works, some of it likely doesn't, but I hope you'll have fun listening nonetheless. I know I had a lot of fun exploring the pop charts, discovering new music, becoming reacquainted with old favorites, and putting this all together.

People will surprise you

"The Plaque at the Stonewall Inn" by Grace Mahony.
CC BY-SA 4.0. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I'm going to put aside the curmudgeon, the malcontent, the very-disappointed-person that I can be for just a moment to share a "Happy Pride Month" story.

Trust me, I don't do this lightly. I'm generally not a very sentimental person, and I'm not a very good Gay with a capital G kind of guy in that a lot of conventional LGBTWhatever touchstones--like Pride events or every time a Q-list celeb proclaims, "Some days I feel like a woman"--just leave me uninspired. I know I should be feeling a certain way, seeing gay life and politics through a particular lens, feeling "the struggle" and recommitting myself to fighting the good fight and being out and proud. And yet mostly the inner snarky 14-year-old boy in me wins out, and all I can do is shrug and say, "This is lame."

***

This week a friend posted a photo on Facebook from the end of grad school, now 24 years ago, when a bunch of us celebrated by going to Ocracoke Island (off the North Carolina coast) and renting a portion of a beach house for a week. I don't remember whose idea it was and who organized it (not me), but it was a great idea, a way to bring about the often-wished for "closure" and to say goodbye before we moved on with our professional and personal lives.

My only regret from the week is that more people weren't invited along because grad school was kind of a golden time for me. There were a lot of people I enjoyed getting to know then, and it's unfortunate that time has moved on and I haven't kept in touch with all of them. And, word to the wise, if you let friendships lapse, sometimes you just can't return and pick up where you left off.

So on this trip, the friend who posted the photo (let's call him Doe, because he has the most beautiful dark eyes) brought along a friend of his (let's call him Jed), who was not part of our grad school circle, a friend that Doe knew from "real life" outside of grad school, and pretty much Doe's best friend. Jed was alright, but initially maybe a little surly and closed off in a sort of typical Southern straight guy way, very much the North Carolina Bubba with a strong hick accent and the sort of traditional redneck interests to match. (Or that's how I remember it: All I recall is an interest in cars and country music, and I'm not even sure about those two.)

Jed was nice looking, but I wasn't attracted to him in that way: I was very much in love at the time with someone (let's call him ... or never mind) who now I wonder what I ever saw in him--and, besides, Jed was dating (let's call her) Melanie, a fellow grad student, and while I wouldn't have described it as the love match of the century, Melanie and Jed seemed happy enough.

As time passed, Jed loosened up some and ultimately was very funny and entertaining. But snob that I can be sometimes, I just thought, oh dear, he is such a Bubba. I'm sure I was thinking something like, "The sooner I leave this all behind, the better!" And yet in three months' time, I moved to Texas. So clearly I have a history of reaching questionable conclusions and making curious decisions based on those conclusions. (Still, my time in North Carolina and my time in Texas were some of the best of my life so far.)

But at that moment I didn't know where I was going--I still hadn't found a job yet and was likely occupied with my own personal concerns at the time. For example, this trip confirmed that I had developed a fear of heights, something that continues to this day. (The clue: I stayed in the beach house's lighthouse-like tower--tall, narrow, and vertical, like every condo building in Toronto--and felt the room spin and the urge to throw myself down the stairs every time I lay my head down on the pillow.) In addition, I probably spent a lot of time thinking how, once again, I was "the only gay in the village." Nobody made me feel uncomfortable--quite the opposite in fact--but for better or for worse, a sense of being "the other" follows me pretty much wherever I go.

To tell the truth, I was actually not the only gay in the village. There had been another grad student invited along on the trip (let's call him Jot), who prior to the trip I was told was dating a woman, a friend of Melanie named--

"Hold on. Jot is dating a woman? Like a real woman?"

"Yes, Jot is straight."

"Uh, Jot is not straight. Honestly, if he's straight, he's the nelliest straight guy I've ever seen."

"Well, he and (let's call her) Barbarella are engaged to be married."

I shrugged it off. My gaydar really stinks, I thought--except that secretly I was sure that I was right. And at some point before we left on that trip, Jot had an "old roommate" come to visit for a long weekend. And during said weekend, Jot and his old roommate pretty much blew the door off that closet.

So then I really was the only gay in the village ...

***

When Doe posted the photo, I saw that he had linked to Jed's profile. Hey, look, there's Jed! I thought. I'd almost forgotten about him! I wonder what he's been up to all these years ....

I clicked through and saw Jed looking pretty much the same as he did 24 years ago--still attractive and smiling a slightly bemused smile. Nothing out of the ordinary (other than 24 years of living had not reduced his youthful appearance), very much as I remembered him.

And then I saw that Jed had indicated he is married. I knew it wasn't Melanie; I had heard they'd broken up long ago. And, besides, the partner had a decidedly male name (let's call him Allis-Chalmers). I did a double-take and enunciated the words slowly in my mind: "Jed ... is married ... to ... Allis-Chalmers?"

This is surely a joke! He must have done this as a laugh! That Jed! Always such a kidder!

I scrolled a little more through his timeline and sure enough, there were several photos of Jed and A-C, some from what appeared to be a romantic vacation to a European country, perhaps a honeymoon, from a few years ago.

Talk about carrying a joke for a really long time ...

But then it sunk in: Jed ... is married ... to Allis-Chalmers! And that's a just wonderful.

***

I don't know why but this turn of events just amazes me in a very good way. I like the fact that Jed seems to have found his "true self," that he's found someone to love, and that they've spent time abroad. I like that Jed, who seemed like such a country boy, defied conventional wisdom and came out as a gay man, likely something that no one expected he would do, maybe not even himself.

I like that my friend Doe is still good friends with Jed--but then Doe is a thoughtful, kind, and deeply spiritual individual, so it makes sense that he would still be good friends with Jed when others might have let the friendship drop once Jed came out. (In a subsequent conversation with Jed, we both fessed up to having a crush on Doe. Doe was and still is quite dreamy!)

I like that Jed surprised me and taught me a lesson (which I will no doubt soon forget) about making assumptions, about presuming to know what someone is about based on appearance, accent, interests, etc. While Jot proved me right, Jed proved me wrong. I like that Jed reminded me that being gay and being a man can mean all kinds of things, not just the stereotypes that others have in mind nor the stereotypes that I have in mind.

So, Jed, you will likely never see this post, but I wish you and Allis-Chalmers all the luck and love in the world. Thanks for surprising me. Thanks for giving me something to be less cynical and more hopeful about.

Happy Pride to you and to everyone. At this moment, I feel very proud, of you, of me, of all of us.

I am Sasha Farce

Guuuuuuuuuuurl.

Rethink this.

Rethink everything.