That essential badness just oozes out of her
Don’t hang your shit on me
I’m floating alone here
Here’s what I wrote (inspired by Gay Pride 2013):
The freedom just oozes out of me, when we smoke those blunts and knock back an Absolut Citron Martini. Because on warm June days when the fog sticks to the bottom half of Sutro Tower, and the muscly men tank-top their way up Castro Street, it all starts to get a little crazy. What’s a gay boy to do?
I’m talking about a sense of letting go so delicious you can’t call it anything—not wild abandon, or superficial, or trivial—it’s freedom, baby, and we’ve been fighting for it all our lives: to love openly. To face the ugly menace of hatred, homophobia, and hetero-centric judgments about what’s normal and who’s deviant. We are marching up the street arm in arm, tipsy and light, celebrating this slice of freedom we call love (though everyone who hates us calls it a lifestyle).
We’re facing Rush Limbaugh and Reverend Phelps, who think Tinky-Winky from the Teletubbies is gay because he/she has a purple purse. We’re laughing, even though seeing the words God Hates Fags on a hand painted sign gives us the fucking creeps. And they call us perverted? Bitches, please!
It’s a bright afternoon; people are pouring out of the theater (built in 1922), showcasing the largest LGBT Film Festival in the world. Guys on guys and gals on gals, y’all, on the big screen. And we’re heading to a club to dance our way through this afternoon in the semi-dimness under a flashing disco ball. The sliding front windows let in the light, and we start moving around the floor, dreaming of days gone by when this place was called The Phoenix, or The Pendulum, when Donna Summer took us down that road (TGIF, sister-friend), or Thelma Houston, hell, even Madonna, with her squeaky little baby boy beats. I know you’re gonna take your love and run, but no one is running now.
And we’re not in some basement bar late at night, not underground or living in fear of police raids, our young faces splashed on the front page of the newspaper tomorrow: Homosexuals Exposed! We’re free now, even though we know some of the cops might still bash us if they have the chance, or let us be bashed while they stand by. But we don’t have to wear wigs and throw bricks anymore (but thank you drag queen forefathers for being so Stonewall Brave).
We’re still paving the way past bigotry and exclusivity, we continued to say, “I do,” when DOMA said we don’t. Tell me, how can you sleep at night until every tranny is free, until parents stop throwing their thirteen-year-old kids out into the streets for being brave enough to openly say, “I’m gay.” Thirteen years old? On the fucking street?
We’re dancing on a Sunday when we should be brunching, or doing homework, housework, yard work, preparing for work on Monday, because there’s got to be acknowledgement of this freedom to be you and me, a miracle, really, that we find each other this way over and over again, and love ourselves in the bright daylight. That freedom is what gives us permission to dance indoors, on a day like this, slightly tipsy and light, you and me, free.