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Pride

Break out the tank tops, the rainbow flags, the freedom rings, the pecs, and the drugs. Gay Day is coming to San Francisco. Market Street will be magically converted into a giant disco. This is the weekend every gay commercial institution in the city lives for. There will be dance clubs running pretty much twenty-four hours a day, gay pride massage specials, and attractive four-color flyers all over town showing the buff disco boys and rainbow colors (that’s ink…not skin…) which are the absolute definition of “Gay San Francisco”.

Big fuckin’ deal.

OK…I’ll admit that Pride Weekend is no more or less commercialized than any other major urban street fair. I can get past the fact that two of the biggest sponsors are breweries and a third is a distillery (although an email correspondent quips “don’t fags ever buy GROCERIES?”). I can ignore the bars and businesses along the parade route which suddenly sprout heretofore unseen rainbow flags for the weekend. They’re seizing an opportunity to make a quick buck, whic not a bad thing in itself.

I’m not even worried about the “freak show” the media will portray. Frankly, they usually showcase a level of humor and diversity of thought which is often sadly underplayed in the actual monotony of the parade. Contrary to popular belief, the parade is neither a celebration of perversion nor a demonstration of strength and diversity. It’s not really anything but a long and usually boring procession of bar floats, politicians, and “people with labels”.

So what is this “pride” thing anyway? I know it’s an unpopular notion, but is one’s sexual orientation anything to be proud of, per se? Granted, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, either. Nor to be hidden. But does “being gay” automatically confer a sense of community on those to whom it happens? I don’t think so. Frankly, I find that I have very little in common with my “community”; maybe I missed the ceremony…

Yes, it is true that gay people are discriminated against every day and in many ways. Equal rights legislation and a change in prejudiced attitudes are absolutely necessary. But, contrary to the “groupthink” inherent to the SF parade, gay white men are not the most oppressed group on the face of the planet. Especially not in San Francisco. And let’s face it: Pride Weekend here (and in New York and Los Angeles) is largely about professional gay white men.

Perhaps in some smaller cities and towns, there’s some validity to the notion of a gay parade to promote a sense of visibility and community. But in San Francisco, the whole event is about throwing a big party and showing off how beautiful and buff and out and gay we all are. And making a buck.

I’m in favor of partying, although Pride Weekend doesn’t provide a lot of opportunities which are to my liking. I’m usually in favor of making a buck too. But let’s not delude ourselves into thinking that this thing has anything much to do with “community”.

So celebrate on…just make sure you know WHAT you’re celebrating.

Celebrating Our Sexuality

A recent flyer from the Alice B. Toklas Gay and Lesbian Democratic Club informed me how nice it will be to “celebrate our sexuality” in a new GLBT community center. Why does this phrase annoy me so?

“Celebrating our sexuality” brings to mind the image of some pagan sex ritual. I visualize a circle of Radical Faeries dancing around a giant phallic symbol on a pole and then retiring to the bushes. Sounds kind of fun, but sadly, I don’t think this is the image the authors had in mind.

Just what the hell does the phrase “celebrating our sexuality” mean? Should I be celebrating the fact that I have a sexuality or just the fact that I have a specific TYPE of sexuality? Since the goals of the community center — as stated in the article — pretty much suggest that this is supposed to be a sex-free, cruise-free environment, just how am I supposed to celebrate it?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting shagging in the community center. I’m just annoyed by yet another warm and fuzzy — but ultimately meaningless — cliche. I’m balking at the idea that sexuality implies something more than…well…sex. And I’m questioning the idea that people who share a certain sexual orientation must, by definition, share any other particular bond.

“Gay pride” is starting to grate in a similar way; how can I be proud of something I had nothing to do with? I’m quite happy and satisfied that I like sex with boys better than with girls, but I’m not especially proud of this fact. I like the fact that I have brown eyes too, but it’s not an accomplishment which I celebrate on a day-to-day basis.

A large measure of pride can obviously be taken in triumph over adversity and discrimination, but simply being proud of an inborn characteristic itself is a little ridiculous, isn’t it? To me, “celebrating sexuality” sort of implies that we should start throwing orgies to commemorate the onset of puberty. And dammit, I’m really pissed that I missed my party!

Frankly, it could be argued that the idea of a GLBT community center in San Francisco is a little ridiculous from the onset. Just what we need: another “safe space” in which to ghettoize and ignore the outside world and vilify those nasty evil heterosexuals. It might make sense in Des Moines, but in San Francisco? Gimme a break…you can’t walk a block here without seeing another “safe space”.

I used to fantasize that San Francisco was a world where people could move beyond defining themselves solely in terms of who they sleep with. I fantasized about a place where an individual could have a number of interests, one of which might happen to involve screwing members of the same sex. Unfortunately, I now find myself in a place which — in many ways — is even more segregated than my hometown in the south.

Silly me…I didn’t understand that here in the ghetto, people are even MORE self-conscious about sexuality and race and gender, mainly because we’re constantly calling such attention to them. And making such a big, divisive issue of them. And letting these traits define us so completely…

“Celebrating” them, even…

Eventually, it becomes possible to avoid having one’s own identity at all; just adopt a few characteristics of “the culture”, learn to speak in cliches, and you’re all set. In some ways this is even worse than the poor souls whose sole self-definition stems from what they do for a living.

I think I’ll throw my own “celebrating our sexuality” party. Should there be cake? A buffet? Balloons? And how should I explain to my straight friends that they aren’t allowed to come?

I Was a Teenage Tearoom Queen

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This article was also published using actual ink on actual paper in 1997 in a North Carolina zine called Preparation X. It reflects a time and place in my life that its long past. Although it’s not something I regret, it’s also not a scene I pursue these days.

I was sixteen years old the first time I had sex in a public restroom. Predictably, it was at the mall. The basement of Montgomery Ward’s at Carolina Circle Mall in Greensboro NC to be precise. I later learned that this particular men’s room was a pretty lame cruising ground. Four Seasons Mall was much better, and it also provided a much enhanced shopping experience in between sessions.

There were many rules to this game, the first one being that not calling attention to oneself while entering and leaving the restroom was tremendously important. I never once had a serious brush with the law or with mall security mostly because I was cool enough not to lurk outside the door and keep going in and out, etc. It was also important to flush all those notes written on toilet paper (“Do you suck?”) and clean up the floor after you finished.

Technique and sign language and visual cues became very important as I grew more accomplished. Rule number two was that appropriate footwear was absolutely essential. Nothing pointed out a troll like cheap sneakers from Pic-n-Pay or K-Mart, topped out with dark blue dress socks. This being the pre-Doc Martens era of the early 80’s, any boots other than the cowboy or hiking variety signaled trouble as well.

Timing was important. On Friday and Saturday nights, the high school “hangout” nights, there was never anything much going on. Everyone was afraid of being caught, I guess. I always had my best luck on Sunday afternoons.

Location was an issue too. Penney’s and Sears seemed to be big draws just about everywhere, maybe because they spent less money on security and usually had bigger restrooms with better designs. I’ve heard stories about really active K-mart stores in small towns. Of course I was later to learn that college campuses could be even more fun.

The goal, of course, was to find someone your own age or reasonably close. Strangely enough, this was often not all that difficult; I learned some of my best moves from a 14-year-old I met at Penney’s when I was 17.

Since HIV was not an issue yet, there were tons of guys roaming around, representing every possible point on the old Kinsey scale. Rule number three was that the queers all said they were “bi” and the straight boys never said anything at all. Neither did one of my married teachers when I ran into him. My ethics prevented me from mating with Mr. D, though I sensed he was less concerned than I.

All in all, it was a pretty strange culture. It was usually very anonymous, although my personal rule was never to “do it” unless I’d at least gotten a glimpse of a face. Despite this fact, I did manage to meet some of my partners and I remain friends with a few of them to this day. The sex was adventurous (particularly given that the two individuals involved were separated by a wall) and dangerous. And it was usually pretty damned fun.

Of course, if all else failed, you could still go shopping…

Since I’ve gotten older and moved to San Francisco (where you can pick up guys at the bus stop), I’ve moved away from the tearoom scene. But these were a few of my favorites from my youth in North Carolina:

Four Seasons Mall, Greensboro:

This was where I really learned “the art”. I could be found here a lot as a high school senior, especially since I worked in the mall. My favorite was Ivey’s (now Dillard’s) before it was remodeled. I met lots of my favorites here including a couple of still current friends. Fond memories:

  • Mark: We met and retired to my car for a drive to some nearby woods when I was 17 and he was a year or two younger. I was amazed that he was so accomplished (and such a slut). This was the first time I ever “swallowed”.
  • Darrell: Short kid with a monster dick. We actually carried on an affair of sorts for a while. He was one of the only people who I ever enjoyed being fucked by.
  • Unnamed redneck boy: He worked at McCrory’s. We met after he got off and went to my car. We met again a year or so later and did it in his pickup truck, him feigning heterosexuality at the time. Then a couple of years later when we were both “of age”, we met again in a bar. He’d gotten over his bout with heterosexuality and was now begging to be treated roughly. I accommodated as best I could.

Carolina Circle Mall, Greensboro:

This was the first place I “did it” in a mall at age 16. I’ve never had good luck there since.

University of North Carolina at Greensboro:

Aah the stories I could tell. The basement of Elliott Center. The library. I got together with every kind of people here in combinations of two, three, four, and more, including (I later discovered) with several friends who were in severe denial about their sexuality. A few interesting moments:

  • The shoe guy: He was a severe foot/shoe fetishist, about 22, who liked to lick my hightops and feel the soles of my feet. Then he wanted me to come on him while he did it. He was fun and always came around on Sunday nights. I always went sockless these nights for his benefit
  • The “tell me a story” guy: Little frat-boy guy who liked to be told dirty stories (which he always directed to the subject of dildoes). This was a little scary, as you never knew who was listening.
  • The exhibitionist: This was a really cute guy about 18, who would do damn near anything as long as someone else was watching. He wouldn’t do a damned thing otherwise.
  • The professor: This man defined the term “troll”. He was uglier than sin and about 107 years old. He’d learned the “footwear rule” and tricked a few unsuspecting souls this way, but usually he just grabbed a middle stall and kept anyone else from doing anything by perpetually and consciously getting in the way. I disliked him intensely and told him so on one or two occasions.

Duke University, Durham:

Duke had the most incredible collection of tearooms I’ve ever seen. I engaged in uninterrupted orgies in the basement of the library and Page Auditorium. Dozens of cute little rich boys were there for the taking on Sunday afternoons. These were the only tearooms I even saw where fucking was a major menu item. Some highlights:

  • The trekkie: A very cute little hippie-deadhead boy. I bent him over a toilet and fucked him for all he was worth on a couple of occasions. He gave me his phone number once, warning me never to call between 7 and 8 because he never missed “Star Trek”. Unfortunately, the one time I did call him, there was a marathon going on. He wanted me to call back in two days. I declined.
  • The drunk: Saw him twice. He was pretty unremarkable except for the fact that he always passed notes under the stall which asked “want a beer?”. I always opted against ‘cuz they were always warm.

Other spots:

Had some interesting moments as well at Eastland and South Park Malls in Charlotte, as well as Crabtree Valley in Raleigh and South Square in Durham. It was fun being a teenager with a car…

I sometimes wonder now if this scene has evaporated now, a victim of HIV and savvy restroom designers, or if I’ve just grown out of it.

On Personal Ads

I read the personal ads once in a while. It’s pretty much more for amusement than out of any quest for “the right man”, for a couple of reasons. The first is pretty simple; I’m not really looking for “the right man”.

Reason number two is that somehow I never seem to qualify as worthy of attention in these ads. Seems I just don’t measure up. Or don’t want to. Does anyone?

Let’s take a close look at the typical gay personal ad.

GWM, straight acting/straight appearing, seeks same..

First of all, I guess I am a “GWM”, though it’s definitely not the primary way I’d identify myself. I’m not sure what “straight acting” means to this guy, but to me it means he’s an asshole. How exactly does he “act straight”? By lying to his friends and dating women he feels nothing for? By being “butch”? By pretending he likes football when he really wants to go to the opera?

“..35 (look 26), attractive…

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a personal ad from an unattractive person. Or from one who looks his age.

“..not into “scene”, looking for friendship first and then maybe more… 

Isn’t that just so fucking coy you could puke? Gimme a break. He’s looking to get laid. If it’s fun, he might want to do it again. And just what “scene” is he so not into? Would that be bars? Or bathhouses? Or alleys? Or poetry readings? Bake-offs maybe?

…Me: gym toned body . You: height proportionate to weight…

God knows this is important to any loving relationship. If the body types don’t match, what else is there?

…professional and career-oriented…

Translation: “yuppie corporate suckup”. In other words: “my job comes first and you get the crumbs”. And in extreme cases: “I am incapable of conversing about anything not work-related”.

…love long walks in the park, candlelight dinners, the Sunday New York Times in bed…

Even if someone really likes this stuff, it’s such a cliche as to become an instant turnoff. Jeez…

If you’re (insert age range younger than the age of the advertiser), hot, and ready to commit for a lifetime…

Why, of course! I’m itching to give you the rest of my life just from this tremendously appealing ad. Really. But since I’m approximately two months older than you, I guess that’s out of the question since I’m no longer “hot”. Pity.

I will say that it’s very comforting to know that all the people posting personal ads are so young, attractive, healthy, financially stable and emotionally centered. And all of them so relationship-oriented. And moral. Veritable poster children for the Advocate’s version of queerdom.

I guess there’s something wrong with me for not finding most of these clones particularly appealing. Especially when they post their ads online to inappropriate newsgroups. But that’s another story…

A few suggestions on placing ads:

  • If you’re looking for a relationship, it might be a good idea to tell something about yourself AS A PERSON. Your vital stats are a nice touch, but (I hope) most people who want to “settle down” are looking for more than just a warm (firm…trim…proportionate…) body.
  • If you’re looking for sex, a few interests (sex-related) might be nice as well, for the same reasons.
  • No “moonlight walks on the beach”, “candlelight dinners for two”, or “looking for that special someone”. If you are no more creative than this, maybe you SHOULD stick to vital stats.
  • The “1962 model (insert name of car)” bit has been done to death. Skip it, wouldja please?
  • The “I’m writing this for a friend…” bit has also been done to death.
  • Many publications will no longer let you say “no fats, no fems, no (insert minority)”. I like these publications.
  • If “dominant/top” is among the first three words in your ad, it’s pretty obvious that you’re more interested in sex than a relationship. This is fine, but it’s a little transparent to lie about it.
  • “Complete discretion and satisfaction assured” makes you sound like a prostitute. Again fine, but you may alienate people who aren’t looking to pay for this guarantee.
  • Don’t be surprised if your ad pops up someplace other tan where you sent it. I had a friend who was really freaked out once to find an ad he placed in a small regional paper appearing in a national porn magazine.
  • Don’t post your goddamn personal ad on a newsgroup which is clearly devoted to some other subject. No one cares. You will be flamed. You will deserve it.

And on answering ads:

  • Like everything else, ads which say “too good to be true” generally are, and there’s at least a 50% chance that you “won’t like what you see” no matter what the ad promises.
  • If you do not in any way match the attributes requested in the ad, it’s pretty pointless to respond, now isn’t it?
  • People stretch the truth in personal ads. This is a fact of life. Be prepared to add 3 years and 20 pounds to your mental picture of the advertiser. Also be prepared to subtract about 10-15 IQ points.
  • Be descriptive in your response. Otherwise you’ll probably end up in the “so what” pile who never hears back from the advertiser.

My Sensors Weren’t Working

So one night I pick up this boy at Hole in the Wall. It’s last call, he’s cute as can be and he seems no more intoxicated than anyone else there. His look is a tad preppier than I usually like, but he’s got a vaguely unkempt mop on top of his head, which sort of makes up for the Gap boy look. Nothing about him sets off any alarms. We venture off into the night.

Back at my house, I realize he may be a bit drunker than I realized. He keeps telling me how much money he’s carrying. He keeps opening his wallet and showing me. And then he passes out on my bed, fully clothed, about five minutes after arrival. He snores so badly that I decide to sleep on the couch.

About 5:30 in the morning, I hear him moving. Next thing I know, he’s in the living room and on the couch with me. He snuggles up to me and without saying so much as a word, he begins…umm…orally coupulating me. Suddenly he looks up at me and asks me who I am and how he got here. I tell him. He goes back to “work”.

He looks up again, this time as if he’s about to cry.

“I’ve been treated really badly. I’ve had a bad night.”

I wonder at his memory of how bad the night was, especially since he’s not even sure where he is at present. I don’t mention it, though, because now he really IS crying. Seems his boyfriend threw him out last night for some unspecified reason. He starts sucking my dick again. Then he asks me if I’m a white supremacist. I tell him I’m not. He assures me he isn’t either. I’m strangely relieved.

For the next half hour, he alternates between sucking, crying, and plotting revenge against said boyfriend. At some point, I mention the money he’s carrying, and then he really gets freaked out. How did he get so much money? What did he do for it? He rememebers a restaurant. And maybe a hotel room, And maybe some cocaine.

Then he asks if I want to fuck him. To shoot him full of jism. I decline, only partly because he’s crying again and wondering where the money came from.

He’s very excited that I have cranberry juice in my refrigerator, even though he doesn’t drink any. By the way, where is he? Oh…only four blocks from home… He lives in an upsacle apartment building on Folsom. And he’s wearing Banana Republic underwear. He’s very proud of the Banana Republic underwear.

He determines that he needs to go home. He asks if I want to cum before he leaves. I “deserve” it since I’ve been so nice and didn’t rob him and all. He offers me some of his money; after all, he doen’t know where it came from anyway…

Finally he leaves and I get to sleep, secure in the knowledge that he probably couldn’t ever find his way back to my house. I resolve never again to pick up anyone at last call, or at least not until I figure out what the hell is wrong with my usually trustworthy freak sensors…

Gay Pride 98

It’s almost that time of year again. San Francisco’s Lesbian – Gay – Transgender – Bisexual – Questioning – Curious – Insert – Appropriate – Label – Here Weekend. Time to start making plans for the big weekend. So far, the one viable suggestion I’ve received has been from my friend Sarah; she thought it might be a good day to go thrift store hopping in Stockton. Sounds like a winner to me. Beats last year when I cleaned the bathroom…

I know…the parade is tempting. Nothing like four (five?) hours of standing in the hot sun watching a bunch of groups with signs declaring their narrowly-defined labels drone past, with the occasional bar float blaring the latest techodiscohouse drivel to break the monotony. I only WISH the parade were as much fun as the 700 Club portrays it…

And nothing like fighting your way into a crowded bar and waiting a half-hour to buy a beer behind some drunk disco bunny who’s ordering seven DIFFERENT cocktails of varying colors and textures for his entourage, none of whom remembers what they wanted and all of whom must stand in the way for fifteen MORE minutes trying to figure it out…

The Saturday night before the parade is a special treat. The city becomes one huge circuit party, with rainbow-clad muscle boys in various stages of chemical disrepair all heaving and grinding to the happnin’ rhythms of Axel K or Simon Q or whoever. It’s great. Really…

When I was a young curmudgeon back in North Carolina, I used to love going to the Pride parades. It was all about visibility and making a statement of political and social power.

Of course, pride is about making a statement here too. And the statement is thus: fags have money. If you sponsor our parade, we will buy your brand of liquor or beer. If you set up a booth full of insipid T-shirts with slogans like “2Q2BSTR8”, we will buy them. If you say you’re working to fight AIDS, we will give you donations, no matter how much of this money goes to furnish your plush offices. If you have a petition about a “gay issue” (like, say, abolishing rent control), we will sign it without even reading it.

We are happy liberated gay men. We are secure in the knowlege that having a sexual orientation is an acceptable substitute to having a personality or an individual identity. We can think for ourselves, as long as the Advocate and Genre tell us it’s OK. And as long as there’s a snappy ad campaign (and a cool T-shirt) behind the recommended thought.

And we’re PROUD dammit. PROUD of our sexual orientation (even though we had no say in its development). PROUD of our ability to get liquor companies to sponsor our parade. PROUD of our muscles and our disposable income and our wardrobes from Bloomie’s. PROUD of the way we’ve made the Castro into a suburban shopping mall and kept those property values high. PROUD that we’re the only ones allowed to make jokes about ourselves.

Of course, we’re probably proud of some other things too, like our political gains, etc.. Some of us might even be embarrassed about a few things. Things like the way we elevate mediocrity to sacred status (witness “Ellen” and the Pet Shop Boys). Things like rampant commercialism, or a completely useless “gay press”, or a culture which completely ignores its youth and “marginal” elements. Things like our severe substance abuse problem and our body fascism. But we’ll be embarrassed quietly, so as to avoid disturbing the party.

Yup…I think I’ll be embarrassed in Stockton. Or maybe even Fresno…

Fair’s A-Comin’

Folsom Street Fair weekend has arrived. I’m having a hard time deciding if I should leave town Saturday or just wait and flee on the actual day of the event.

Decisions, decisions…

It’s been an incredibly busy week, both at the part-time job and on the web design side of things. My apologies to everyone to whom I owe email. I’m planning to try and catch up today before the exodus and before a possible afternoon “coffee moment” with my pal Mark. I offer no guarantees though, only more apologies if I don’t succeed.

I do, however, promise to write something a little more interesting than quickie journal entries in the next few days. OK…maybe “promise” is too strong a word…

Anybody got any information on weather conditions in the Wyoming Rockies in late October and early November?

Gay Resource?

Wow…I’ve discovered that Planet SOMA is now linked by the Advocate as a gay resource. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or horrified. I think I’ll choose “amused”, particularly given all the less than complimetary things I’ve had to say about the Advocate over the years.

Guess their marketing department wasn’t consulted…

Another great discovery today came as I looked for something in “the drawer”. Every house has one; it’s that place where stuff lands when you don’t know what else to do with it. Didn’t find what I was looking for, but we have masking tape. And chopsticks. Who knew…

Road Trip 98 now includes the first parts of the Minnesota story. Seems it’s going to take me as long to get the trip online as it did to actually take the trip.

Faux Butch

When I splintered those closet doors at the tender age of 17, people often said to me “I never would have guessed you were gay” (a pretty back-handed compliment if ever there was one). Nowadays, I’m more likely to be told that I’m “masculine”. Hmmm…

I never really thought of myself as “masculine”. It’s certainly nothing I’ve ever aspired to. To be honest, “masculinity” is not something I really give a shit about, whether it’s my own or that of a friend or sex partner. I just don’t really care that much one way or the other.

Granted, it’s annoying to be in a bar full of affected idiots snapping their fingers and squealing “Oh Mary” this and “Miss Thing” that. But that’s not really about “masculinity” or “effeminacy”. It’s all about stupid learned behaviors. It’s no less annoying to be in a bar full of faux butch poseurs. Again, it’s got nothing to do with their “masculinity”, but with their inability to act like anything but cliches.

I’m not really talking about leatherfags here, although I do find the leather scene more comical than erotic most of the time. Leatherfags at least ADMIT that it’s all about costumes and fetishism. Once outside the drag, leatherfags usally have some balance.

No, I’m talking about the poor souls who go through life (both in and out of the bedroom) absolutely obsessed with being “masculine”.

Picture the wannabe frat boy who’s always off to the racquetball court in his monster truck, as if driving a Geo Metro might make his hair turn lavender. Off he flies in search of the latest “outdoorsy” drag from Abercrombie & Fitch, and then off to the gym to work on those grotesque pecs and lats and abs, all the time dreaming of a similarly “masculine” boyfriend. No fats. No fems…

He’s fiercely proud of being gay, and he’s perpetually annoyed by all the drag queens and anyone else who doesn’t meet his standard of “masculinity”. He thinks “fringe groups” present the “wrong image”, although he fancies himself politically progressive. He regularly reminds his straight friends that being gay does not mean being “effeminate”. No fats. No fems…

In bed, he may play “bottom” on occasion, but only with someone even more “masculine” than he is. No fats. No fems…

Think about it for a minute. Is he any less affected than the Southern belle in the pegleg jeans and the Chanel T-shirt? Is he any less contrived than the fey antique shop owner who refers to everyone — male and female — as”she”?

I don’t understand this whole faux butch dynamic. I don’t understand viewing life in terms of “masculine” or “feminine” any more than I understand anyone who describes himself as a “top” or a “bottom”. Maybe I’m missing something.

I’ll take a cute sissy with a personality over a tight-assed drag king with a macho complex any day of the week. As a friend or as a boyfriend…

To Have and to Hold

Many gay activists seem to believe that “gay marriage” is the single most important issue facing gay people today. I’m not inclined to agree. While I do believe that same-sex couples in committed relationships should have the same benefits as opposite-sex couples, I’m convinced that a far more important issue is the recognition of the freedom NOT to couple.

Here’s a bold statement: being paired off with a “life partner” or a “soulmate” ot whatever is not the end-all and be-all for everyone on the planet. Coupling is not the right option for everyone at evry phase of life. It’s not even the right option for some people at ANY phase of life.

I’m not sure why this is such a radical notion for some people. Our whole society seems to be designed for cute little pigeon-holed Noah’s Ark pairs, all the way from junior high dances to tandem burial plots. The tax laws favor married heterosexuals (preferably with children). The gay press is increasingly obsessed either with finding a mate or with what to do with one once you succeed. Singles are made to feel uncomfortable when they dine alone, go to movies alone, or when they just want to sit a home alone.

If the entire”gay movement” is about our right to choose our own partners, shouldn’t it naturally follow that we also have a right not to choose anyone? Is this not a valid viewpoint?

I want to make it clear that I’m not against coupling. I know many happy couples, and the happiest seem to be those where each partner has his or her own life. I’m not even averse to the idea of coupling myself at some point. But this notion that “finding the right mate” will somehow be the end of all one’s problems is just plain stupid.

Suppose, say, that my problem is that I’m trying to figure out who I am and who I want to be — not an uncommon problem, I might add. How will having a husband help? If I want emotional support, I go to my friends. Frankly, bringing somene else into this situation would only make things worse.

Once again, I may indeed “couple” at some point. It will obviously not be because I need 24-hour companionship, because I’m usually more happy by myself. It will not be for the tax breaks, because there aren’t any. It will not be beacuse I need a date for the movies or dinner or parties; I’m a big boy and I can do these things by myself. It will not be for sex; that’s why there are sex clubs. It will not be to please Mom and Dad, or (God forbid) to have children.

And it will most definitely not be because “I’m supposed to” or because “that’s what people do”. It will be because I’ve met someone I enjoy being with…someone who doesn’t want to spend every waking moment with me…someone who understands that the first person plural needn’t supercede the first person singular.

I’m not so cynical as to think that most people are in relationships for the aforementioned suspect reasons. I just wish all the “we” people would stop trying to get ME into one for those reasons.