‘Found myself in crowded rooms feeling so alone.’
This poignant Madonna lyric occasionally sums up how I feel. As I think I’ve said, I’m no victim. But being away from Sydney, I am starting to pine for that sense of community and being among like-minded people. Lately, I’ve been feeling like the only gay in the village.
‘Yeah, yeah, fancy pants,’ the cabbie barked. ‘We don’t do that,’ snapped the surly shop assistance. ‘He’s such a queen,’ some redneck skank mumbled to her BFF with the muffin-top.
Really? What’s a queen? Do tell? Does he mince around in Calvins’ listening to Kylie on his iPod? Or is he too busy sucking-off men in public toilets? Maybe he’s getting trashed in a nightclub? Just look for the sissy under the disco balls. Or maybe they’re lurking around shopping centres waiting to molest little boys. Because, of course, all gay men are paedophiles.
These tired stereotypes have got to go.
Not only are they lame generalisations, they’re completely inaccurate misapprehensions to harbour. You might want to check your facts, for example, before suggesting someone’s a child abusing sicko or drug-addled rent boy.
World AIDS Day is today and Transgender Remembrance Day passed recently. Most people wouldn’t know. Unless they caught it on telly. ‘Damned, banner-waving activists and their marriage rights!’ Even though statistics show otherwise; HIV is a gay disease, right? And well, those trannie freaks, that’s too much to even think about. They’re all junkie prostitutes anyway.
Yes, most beige people are too busy nagging about things they don’t understand, or too consumed with Oprah’s impending visit and the Royal Wedding to be bothered with our human rights. Actually no, I’m not a hypersensitive whinger; I’m just realistic. And I’m tired of indulging the bullshit.
I miss Sydney. I miss being among others who get me. Mum’s cool, but we have our moments. Bloody old woman is set in her ways. Sydney peeps might bitch behind my back about the extra five kilos, but that’s what Duromine is for. Indeed,
I have this overwhelming urge to surround myself in an orgy of leather, glitter and feathers. Drag queens, dykes, bears, and rainbow flags.
Bring it, Mardi Gras! It’s supposed to be our gay Christmas, after all. It’s almost impossible to feel alone –in this drowned world – during the Mardi Gras festival. And they even have shiny disco balls.