Rick Shory

Offering a little something you might not otherwise have

Leave a comment

Great Satan dance

In the late 1940s, Islamic leader Sayyid Qutb spent two years in the United States, sent by the Egyptian government to study US educational methods. During his time at Colorado State College for Education (now University of Northern Colorado) in Greeley, he was horrified by such sights as young men and women square dancing together at a church social. His criticisms are in the lineage of America as the Great Satan.
Too bad it wasn’t gay square dance. We can only guess that men together would have been no more offensive than Punjabis dancing the Bhangra.

Leave a comment

The gay bully

My cousin sent me a link to this. I started reading. I was about to click away with a yawn before I noticed the writer was Armistead Maupin.

How things change. I first saw Maupin’s “Tales of the City” series in the late 1980s. Each book, I couldn’t put it down! I was living on a boat, scraping by. I lived aboard friend’s small craft, parked in the marina. Rent was free, in exchange for keeping an eye on things. The tiny cabin wasn’t even big enough to stand up, so night after night, I sat long hours on the mooring slips, reading those books under the dock lights.

The couldn’t-put-it-down wasn’t from adventure, but from the steady subtext, “Gay life can be normal!” Here were these functional gay characters, in richly integrated lives. The message to me, trying to figure out this new weird gay thing, was, “You, too, can have a fun, normal life!”

The past several months, I have been leisurely going through the same series again, as audiobooks. They are delightful in how they bring back that time and place. But after all these decades, I now have my own richly integrated gay life. Literature is no longer so riveting.

I was about to click away from the current excerpt because it came across as the same-old gay story. That we are gay because of a clinging mother and a distant father. If that were true, the whole boomer generation would be gay.

That’s oversimplified. Here’s the theme in broader terms: The feminine energy is friendly, accommodating, understanding. The females themselves may be sisters, aunties, grandmothers, schoolmates; not just mothers. They are angels. The male energy is bluff, brutal, rigid. At best, it finds us baffling. The male figures, in addition to fathers, may be coaches, jocks, and especially bullies. They are demons. In its million variations, this is the sissy-victim gay story.

So, what’s this? Armistead Maupin squashing his early life into the trope of sissy-victim? It’s hard to swallow. He didn’t have it nearly bad enough. He was famous in San Francisco by his early thirties, and his work is so wonderful because it tells stories other than sissy-victim.

My personal story didn’t fit either. Both my parents were distant, my dad from his career, and my mom from four kids born within five years. I was a middle child, low expectations from the get-go.

When I was maybe 3 for 4, I got to stay up late while my mom iced my birthday cake for the next day. She looked down, tousled my head, and remarked how thick my hair was getting to be. I said no, I saw one of my hairs, and it was very thin.

From this, I might have built a whole narrative of maternal closeness. But really, besides injury-care, that is the only incident of personal attention I can remember. In adult life, my dad and I did develop a fond relationship. But from mom, as she faded into deafness and senility, that was never there.

In school, sure I was picked on, but what kid wasn’t? I had it easy. I was tallest in my class, always at the end of the picture line. When I was in first grade, there was a triad of third-graders who tormented me. Only years later did I realize. What?! One kid, age six, holding his own against three nine-year-olds? All they could ever manage was shove me, and tug at my clothes. Not much to complain about.

I was precocious. The standardized test scores are there to prove it, though it didn’t make my life a dream. It’s obvious now. The picking-on in my case was from those who always want to pull things down.

In maybe 3rd or 4th grade, a teacher took me aside and told me to stop bullying. I was taken aback. From my perspective now, I can see. I big boy, with a touch of Asperger’s. His intense, nerdy interests don’t attract many friends. He’s not much good at social cues, so it does not even occur to him he might be scaring the other kids. And, a little bit, he’s starting to like the boys. The way other boys may start pulling the girls’ pigtails.

I was shocked when the teacher scolded me. I took myself in hand and I don’t think I did it much any more. But there’s your window into the opposite gay archetype, the gay bully.

The gay bully shows up in the shadows of gay tales. He’s there as Maupin’s mean trigonometry teacher. He’s there as the thundering, in-denial, anti-gay preacher. He’s there as the snooty klatch of high-society A-gays. He’s there all too often as sissy-victim’s first sexual encounter. In the tales, he usually gets his come-uppance with poetic justice, mostly offstage. But he seldom gets a literary voice.

The gay bully is in real life. Say, J. Edgar Hoover. What kind of come-uppance is it, if he gets away with it for his whole lifetime? The usual dismissal is an arch tut-tut. But that’s like forgiving Hitler as a frustrated art student. To keep Hitler from happening again, you’ve got to understand Hitler. There’s a book in this, maybe a genre.

It reminds me of a theme from the vampire literature, something like “The law of the masquerade”. Vampires have survived by convincing general society that there is no such thing as vampires. Gay survival has had a lot do with letting general society believe that gays are all wimpy poofs, no threat. A man who wants men, and learns how to manipulate power, can stay invisible. Compared to other down trodden minorities, it’s easy. An angry young black man is obviously black, an outsider. A gay bully can stay an insider.

Gore Vidal wrote a remarkable novel “The City and the Pillar”. The first remarkable thing about it was it treated gay reality — clear back in the 1940s! The next remarkable thing was, even that far back, it broke right out of the sissy-victim party line. The sissy-victims are there, but in the corners, rather than the spotlight.

The spotlight is on Jim. In high school, he has sex with his best friend Bob, just before Bob ships out for the Merchant Marine. They are normal, masculine guys. Jim is in love, though he doesn’t quite understand it. He isn’t weepy about it, more like dogged. As his life opens up he pursues things that might lead him again to Bob. The military. Sports. When he finally does get with Bob again years later, and Bob resists him, Jim takes Bob. In the original, murder. In the 1960s revision, rape. The gay bully prevailed.

I’m not for rape and murder, but these stories need to be told. For all the gloss of gays being wan and ineffectual, and above all “sensitive”, we manage to abuse each other worse than anybody. It’s not going to stop until it gets talked about.

I want to hear more from the gay bully. We’ve heard enough from sissy-victim. The two have a lot of parallels. Sissy-victim doesn’t see himself as actively being a sissy-victim, he just feels like he is the way he is, but the world is so mean. The gay bully doesn’t see himself as bullying. He just is the way he is, and circumstances fall into place before him. For sissy-victim, his personal growth is to see how he’s being complicit with his abuse, and choose to stop it. The gay bully needs to grow out of his bullying, with temperance and enlightenment. Sissy-victim is not, of course, supposed to switch and become a bully. Equally ludicrous would the bully breaking down and “getting in touch with his true sissy feminine side”.

I know all too many gay men who seem satisfied to live their entire lives in the vortex of sissy-victim. On the other hand, I don’t know that I know any gay bullies. Are there really just the few? The public figures we see when they fall? Or are there lots of them, invisible, in plain sight?

Leave a comment

gay guys marrying women

My nephew told me about a guy he grew up with, who he always thought was gay. That man had now married to a woman. “How can a gay guy get married to a woman?” my nephew mused.

I can offer this perspective from my own life. I never went down that road myself, but maybe it’s the path of least resistance.

All through college, I never figured out I was gay. Early on, I had, for a while, what I suppose could be construed as a girlfriend. I hung out with this girl, Annie Cater, and her friend Lisa “Tippie” Lopez.

One time, Annie smuggled me into the girls’ dorm and got me naked in bed with her. For me, the forbidden fun of sneaking into her room was about as far as it went. I did as instructed, but maybe she was puzzled when I didn’t respond how she’d heard a boy was supposed to.

I was vaguely aware there were emotional undercurrents on her side. One time, I planted her a pan of wild violets, for her windowsill. A long time later I asked about the violets. The answer was, they were no more. There was a hint from Tippie, the planter had gone down in a fit of temper.

Was Annie riding the tumult of the ups and downs of “our relationship”? If so, I was blissfully clueless we even had “a relationship”.

The point is, for me it was all easy. It was so easy because I was not bonding to Annie. I was happy to go along with whatever happened. I can see a guy going-along like this, even to the point of saying “yes” to the question of matrimony.

That same year, one evening in the college cafeteria I sat for dinner with a guy named Bob Birch. We talked and visited pleasantly. However, as if on a separate information track, he kept lightly kicking my foot under the table. I ignored this for a long time but finally found it mildly annoying and kicked back. That’s as far as anything ever went.

Years later, I heard that kicking under the table was a gay come-on. Somewhere in there, I heard a shred of rumor that Bob was gay. Maybe I had been on thin ice.  Bob was really quite handsome. One touch of his hand, a little less inhibition on my part, and maybe my body would have taken over. I might have been appalled afterwards, but things could have got really complicated.

Handsome as he was, Bob was subtly cracked. One night, in the drunken mayhem that was always going on in the dorms, he smashed his fist through a plate glass window. I have a memory, maybe woven from gossip. I picture him in the distant lamplight, being carried away on a stretcher, his striking face glazed, the gash in his arm gushing blood. I heard the surgeon could barely find the severed ends of the tendons, to stitch them back together.

For me, though, this happened mostly off stage. Bob was someone I barely knew.

It was far easier to let myself land in bed with a female. A little cuddling and skin contact might have been nice, even if not quite the right flavor. If there’s any truth to the cliché that wedding cake is a powerful female anti-aphrodisiac, her and my agendas might have dovetailed very well.

I think I instinctively knew not to go anywhere near the likes of Bob, no matter how handsome he was. Maybe a gay guy marrying a woman is crazy, but sometimes it’s the less crazy option. You get involved with a guy who puts his fist through plate glass windows, pretty soon you’re likely to be smashing your fists through some of your own.

Leave a comment

Wanted to be with her

Kelly had known she was a dyke since high school.

For Jill, gender didn’t matter, just the person.

It was very sweet to see them together, holding hands around camp and all. I talked to them a long time after dinner. I asked how they’d got together.

Jill said, “It got through to me, here was somebody who really wanted to be with me.”

Before, she’d only been in one relationship. Him saying one thing with his words, but something else with his actions.  Subtle control. No good. Not fun. I could relate. Enough said.

But. Could it be that’s all there is to it? Show a man I really want to be with him?

I can’t imagine. I think, if I tried it, I’d be sure to end up breaking my heart over a straight guy.

My current crush, I can’t even be normal around him. He is such a package of easy, unaffected masculinity that I get tongue tied every time I see him. I exchange casual greetings with everybody else around here, but I can’t do it with him. I get so stirred up, I just can’t. If he thinks about me at all, he may well think I’m unfriendly.

But could that be all there is to it? Show a man I want to be with him?

Could it be?

Leave a comment

The human condition

In the three weeks I’ve been on the North Slope, spring has come. When I arrived, this drive south from Deadhorse to the research station was through a wilderness of white. While I was at Toolik, the geese migrated through. They floated in half-thawed tundra ponds, then moved on north. Now they are here, on the vast, flat coastal plain that slopes imperceptibly northward to the Arctic Ocean.

The land is no longer white. There is still snow, in dirty gray patches, and ice on the Sagavanirktok River. The abruptly-revealed brown vegetation has scarcely started its sprint towards summer green. The brushy willows are barely budding, and there are only a few patches of flowers.

yellow tundra flowers, possibly anemone


Overhead, the sky is gray, and the wind is cold, but to the geese it’s the Promised Land.

Tundra swans on a thawing pond

Tundra swans

Wack, who is quite an ornithologist, points out raptors, owls, tundra swans. Occasionally there is a puff of white feathers among the gray twigs, crime scene of where a ptarmigan met its end back during the winter. But everywhere are the geese. They step, in twos and threes, between the tundra bushes. The birds carry shreds of wet vegetation, swinging from their beaks. Nesting material. All across the tundra, the geese are nesting.

Mile after mile, as we traverse the gravel highway, the geese are out there. Thousands, maybe millions. From an aerial perspective, they would seem endless.

Then an ecological perspective overlays. All the geese are doing exactly the same thing. Building nests. Eating grass. The same thing, multiplied a million times. I think of other species. The willows. The caribou. As species, they all do the same thing. Then I think of humans.

As soon as even a few humans get together, like an ice age hunting camp, they start to do different things. One is better at flintknapping. One is better at stitching the hides. So humans join together in groups, which can do more than the individuals alone.

The hide stitcher frees up the flintknapper to become even better at that job. There is a place for broken humans. A clan member who is blind can still chew the hides, to make them soft for mukluks. Thus, can free up the clan.

We admire animals. Each one is whole and complete. It must be. A broken goose is soon no more. But, as other humans are taking up the slack for us, each of us is incomplete. Broken, if you will. As individuals, that’s not very admirable. But together, it makes us more.

Other species specialize a little. When geese are flying in a “V”, the one at the head of the “V” tends to be a more experienced bird. But that’s about as far as it goes. Individual willow bushes are either male or female, so pollen or seeds. But that’s about it.

Social insects organize to a considerable degree, but it’s hardwired. They don’t come up with new things to do, only on evolutionary time scales. Geese fly in the “V”. They never try squares, or pentagrams.

On the other hand, humans are continually coming up with different things to do. Piling rocks on top of each other. Digging in the ground and sowing seeds. By and by, the things that work free up enough time that some humans can get by doing utterly bizarre things, like analyzing  mortgage-backed security derivatives. And, well, running research stations.

I think of how far this can go. This human innovation and specialization. I thought of it one time I went to the Portland bear bar, The Eagle.

That night it was advertised there were “dancers”. Well, they weren’t really dancing. There was a sheet of plywood laid down atop the pool table, and the two guys were up on that. They were standing, stepping sort of back and forth, side to side, keeping rhythm a little with their arms. I guess that’s about all they dared risk, or the plywood might go flying.

The two of them did look fine. They were big and muscular and hairy, just what the clientele liked. I don’t recall patrons coming up and tucking dollar bill tips in the dancers’ jockstraps, but it was that kind of scene.

I thought, how could you explain such a thing to any other species?

I daydream: On the long drive north to the airport in Deadhorse, we stop for a pee-break along the highway. We fan out across the tundra. I shoulder in amongst the taller willow bushes for some privacy.

Up ahead, what’s that? The branches thin, and I see a little clearing. Quietly, I crouch and peer inside. Two fine ganders are standing on a tussock, stepping back and forth on their big webbed feet. Around them, in the shadows of the brush, is an appreciative gaggle of other ganders. As I watch, one in the crowd occasionally tosses a tuft of edible grass towards the first two. These bob their necks in acknowledgement but for now leave the morsels lay. They flutter their wings a bit, as if for balance. They keep on stepping, back and forth, side to side, on their big webbed feet.

Leave a comment

Big Puppies

“I could give you guys a ride home,” I offered.

As soon as I said it, I thought better of it.  They were drunk.  What if they spilled stuff in the rental car?  What if they passed out, threw up?

Then I thought, no.  It’ll be fun.  It’ll be an adventure.  I can handle it.

Always before, I had breezed over the Sweet Party announcements in the weekly emails.  More gay BS, I thought.  More overblown claims to be something that never panned out.

Then, one night I went out dancing here in Fort Collins.  I remembered the magic.  Dancing somehow gets me out of myself.  It takes me to a really good place in my head.  Not to mention loosens up all my joints.

It was great.  The whirling, writhing energy.  The fun things they do with light shows nowadays; the lasers and the smoke.  The occasional nice looking man on the dance floor.

I had a really good time.  The only way it could be better, I thought, would be in a gay crowd.  So I made a mental note to check out the Sweet Party.

Finally, this weekend I was in Denver the night of the month when the Sweet Party happened.  Of course, on the way to the bar, I considered just canning it and going home.  But, no, I said to myself, if I don’t like it, I can just leave.  And then I’ll know.  And I won’t ever have to do it again.

Dancing is simple.  You just feel the rhythm in your neck, and let the rest of your body follow.  I stepped onto the dance floor and brought the music into me.  It happened.  It clicked.

The floor was crowded, but I’m adaptable.  I can swirl through a hundred feet of space, if I have it.  Or less, right down to body contact.  Far better, I considered, than what’s often happened.  Me, the only one gyrating, while everybody else stands around stiff with drinks in their hands.

This was a real dancing crowd, maybe twenty, forty men; one or two women.  My favorite light-show effect was the spaghetti swirls of laser light, knifing through the puffs of chocolate-scented smoke, so it looked like gouts of red, yellow, and green flame.

The little sandy haired guy with the moustache was first.  His hand brushed me.  His face was friendly, tipsy.  He danced with me, putting his arms around, from time to time.  After a song or two, “I’ve got to take a break,” he yelled over the music.  “That’s my partner,” he said, pointing into the darkness.

Gay men who are courteous are prompt to answer the unasked question: “How available are you?”

Then his partner, dark haired, with a sort of Fu-Manchu.  He was more drunk, and much more forward.  He bumped and ground against me.  I gave it right back, in the joy of the dance.

It was fun, through the evening, to have the two of them come and go.  Swirls of innocent carnality, playful lust.  Finally at 1:30 AM the DJ wound it up, and we were out in the main bar.

“I’m Tom,” said the sandy-haired one, “And this is Andy.”  They were about ten years younger than me, and adorable, though not really my type.  The bar was closing down.  They were talking about calling a cab.  I realized I had a perfectly serviceable car at my disposal, and made my offer.

They stumbled the two blocks up the sidewalk to my car.  I held one of them up under each arm.  They playfully groped me.

“We’re going to have sex with you, when we get to our house,” said dark-haired Andy.

“No, thanks,” I demurred, “I’ve got a long drive home.”

“Just an hour,” said Tom, “Then you can go.  Or you can spend the night.  In a bed alone, if you want.”

“No, I need to get home.”

It was a long two blocks.  I felt a mixture of self consciousness about what kind of spectacle we were making, and pleasure at all the attention.  “You’ve got a really nice ass,” said Andy, cupping his hand.

Am I going to be able to drive, I thought, with these guys all over me?  But it turned out to be fine.  They were like two big puppies.

You know, you could have two excited, friendly puppies in your car.  They’d try to lick you and nuzzle you, and get in your lap.  You’d pat them and scratch behind their ears, and gently parry their energy.  You’d still be able to drive, just fine.

So I piloted the car through the 2:00 AM streets of downtown Denver, Tom pointing to turn here and turn there.  As I dropped them off, “You sure you don’t want to come spend the night with us?” Andy slurred.

“You’re a hot man,” said Tom.

Now it’s next morning, and I am still tickled about it all.  I have a nice afterglow.  All that attention I guess.

It’s much better than if I’d actually tried to have sex with them!

Leave a comment


After the party I went with Jerry over to his house.
We rode our bikes.

Astride his bike, I found myself noticing his manly shape,
his straight legs inside his Carharts,
his ass.

I was just going there to look at a tree that had died.
That’s all that happened.
On the surface.

But I noticed him.
His nice smile.
His red beard.
His friendly eyes.

I stayed somewhat longer,
asking him about the grass,
the flowers,
his bicycle.

I noticed the way his hair came down on the back of his head.
It was only the way a man’s hair does.
But it’s like nothing else in the universe.

  I like his wife.
I would never hit on a man like that.
I would never mess with them.

  But I found myself following a train of thought
something like this:

  What a delightful creature.

I like to look at him.

I would like to look at him often,
and a lot.

It would feel so right.

  At the party where we just were.
The man, the woman, the two dogs.
They all live there.

  They are very different kinds of beings.
But they all live there and interact.
And they like it enough to keep doing it.
To be in each other’s presence a lot.

  This delightful creature in front of me now.

Wouldn’t he,
or someone like him,
want to be in my presence a lot?

Then I could look at him a lot.

It seems,
under some circumstance,
like that would be possible.

  Then the clouded confusion.

in all this wide world of realities,
does this never happen?

Leave a comment

Big back yard

I’ve been going up to Wyoming and back since the end of May.  Spring there is slow in coming.  This past week it was cold.  Frosty at night.  But then Pinedale is nearly 8,000 feet elevation.

I looked on the weather map, and to the south it was 70s, 80s, 90s (93F in Denver).  Color coded yellows, oranges, and reds.  But where we were, it was a patch of blue.  It was cool colors to the north too.

The sky spit sleety snow most days, and the cold wind was relentless.  Until Friday when it was suddenly sunny and still.  New snow was on the Wind River Range, to where it looked like January.

I had heard the Rainbow Gathering was going to be near Pinedale.  The rumor was at Boulder Lake.  So Friday a week ago, on the way back down to Colorado I went up there.  It was about 10 miles off the road I take home.

I found just 3 guys, camped out with a lean-to tarp and a campfire, in a drizzly rain that felt like Scotland, or winter in the Northwest.  They were nice-looking bearded hippie types, and very friendly.  The greeting, when you arrive, is “Welcome home!”.

I hung out with them awhile.  They said the final site was going to be decided in the next few days.

So, Thursday night I checked, and directions were online.  On the way home yesterday, I followed them and found the incipient gathering.  It had only “started” a day or two before but there were probably a couple hundred people already.

On the way in, I couldn’t imagine where a big gathering would camp. The landscape was all wide barren valleys, and steep slopes.  But when I got there, it was in the timber, a sort of broad bowl in the mountains.  There were lots of meadows and open woods.  Sighingly beautiful.

A lot of the men were really beautiful too.  Nice full beards.  But so many of them smoked.  If I were uncharitable, I would have thought, “just a bunch of derelicts”.

I don’t know how I would have enjoyed it if I had been free to stay and camp there.  I don’t know how I would have resonated with the vibe of smoke, drink, dope, and general debauchery in the woods.

Probably better than at the big gay gathering that happens in SE Wyoming every summer, called Rendezvous.  It’s a huge disco scene, transplanted to the woods.  The time I went, I had to camp about a mile away, to find enough quiet to sleep.  The mainstage tent blasted amped-up music till all hours.

As it was, I hung out with the guys at the Rainbow Gathering front gate, maybe 20 minutes.  I talked to them while I ate my lunch.  I was at the gathering only about an hour total.  I was antsy to get going.  It’s a good six-hour drive from Pinedale to Fort Collins, even without any detours.

It ended up being considerably longer than that.  Pinedale is to the east of the Wind River Range, which runs generally NW to SE.  Normally, I shoot south on the main highway, through the Green River basin, to the freeway east.  But detouring to the gathering site, I’d gone around to the southern toe of the range.  Driving out, I checked my map and saw it would not be a lot farther to continue on east around the Winds and take another highway.

So I ended up going home through the Sweetwater country.  It’s a beautiful, broad valley, the route of the old Oregon Trail.  The Sweetwater river winds slowly among sculptured granite hills, the tips of weathered and buried mountains.  For the pioneers, there was grass and water for livestock.  It’s the only easy wagon route across the Continental Divide north of New Mexico.  In fact, the dirt road I’d taken from the gathering site to highway 26 partly ran along top of the divide, which was just a low ridge.

I didn’t get home till nearly midnight, but it was worth it for the scenery.  It’s funny how Wyoming, which once seemed so huge and trackless, is now feeling so homey.  Partly, it’s from following my Roadside Geology book. Every little so often I see something know about.

But, strangely, it’s because the views are so vast, it gives the feel of just a big back yard.  For example the mountains I would see thirty miles to the north from the I-80 route, I now recognize as the same ranges to the south of the Sweetwater.  And there’s a gap through the hills near Tie Siding, not too far from Laramie, where you glimpse the lights of Fort Collins, nearly an hours drive before you drop down through the valleys to get there.

Leave a comment


“Fear”.  The word conjures up images of trembling and flight.  But that isn’t what most fear is. Fear is simply not knowing what to do with a situation.

Vedawoo (“VEE-da-voo”) is an area of intriguing rock formations.

Some are like six-foot-tall mushrooms made of knobbly granite, sprouting out of the wooded plain.

Some are like breaking waves, frozen in stone.

But some are as big as small hills, formed of shelves and folds, balanced boulders, channels and miniature canyons, with the occasional little arches and (after rain) pools of water cupped in the granite.

It invites you to scramble and clamber, explore, and wander out to a local high point for a promontory view.

I was picking my way along one of the ridges, towards one of these views.  Three guys were working towards me, having already had their time at the view.

As they came into my presence, the leading one leapt across a little crevice a few feet wide.  The second one said something about “the gay gazelle”.

There it was, some of the fear I am exploring this definition of.

The second guy was a little afraid he could not leap across so well.  So his comment came out sharp, a joking complement, with a teasing barb.

He was a little afraid of me too, coming towards them, burly and hairy.

What if I were straight?  What if I challenged them?  Or even asked them something?

Or remarked in a way they would not know how to reflect back?

The guy had to quickly, and insistently, post that they were gay.  Set the agenda.

I guess, by that definition, I was afraid too.  I didn’t know what to do with this.

I never know what to do with guys who are rambling along, snapping their necks and wrists.

Whose entire vocalization consists of muttered quotes (from show tunes?) I have never heard of.

Leave a comment

Queer as Folk

My sister-in-law likes the show “Queer as Folk”.  I thought I better see what the media had been feeding her, so I got a CD and watched a couple seasons.

My eyes narrowed as the story lines unfolded.  At first my squinting was from trying to tell the characters apart.  They all looked exactly alike; slim, smooth, and clean-shaven.

After several episodes, I thought, “Well, there’s nothing portrayed here I can say doesn’t happen.  But.  It gives the impression we live in this vibrant, interesting milieu of fun gay stuff going on all the time.”

“That we live gay lives.”

In reality, most of us exist awash in this ocean of straight books, movies, news, advertisement, assumptions, and foregone conclusions.  We are, most of the time, diluted to invisibility.

In a library, we might be able to hunt up a few gay books, if they haven’t been censored out of existence.

On the newsstands, there might be a scattering of gay rags, thick with alcohol and tobacco ads, and showing people who look nothing like anybody I’ve ever met.

And on TV there’s…  Well, there are a few others, and there’s “Queer as Folk”.

I watched the show under pensive brows.

The episodes presented one after another “true to life” angles of gaydom:  Drag queens.  Fat fantasies.  Chatrooms.  S&M.

Sanitized just enough for television.  But lopped off and laid out like a beefsteak.  Commercializing on our weirdness.

I had to admit it was well done, though.

Then, in one episode, a gay character says to this straight older man, “Well, you would have made a great bear!”

“Wha… What!”  I cried.

That would be like, well, like nothing.  Something equally bizarre as maybe Puerto Rican woman saying to a Chinese man (coyly, like a farewell complement), “Well, you would have made a great nigger!”

Complete lack of understanding.

Nobody aspires to be a bear.  It’s something you finally resign yourself to, the consolation prize, after wondering for years why the gay subculture takes no notice of you, is incredulous that you are actually gay, and is totally clueless what you’re about.

We bears are very much the niggers of the gay world.

I have never seen anything about bears in The Advocate, for example, that wasn’t vaguely mocking, entirely baffled, or completely missed the point.

They could never get away with that towards, say, transgender people.

Bearish men are my natural sexual preference.  This is possibly what The Advocate is most uncomprehending about; that such a thing could be.

I didn’t even know I was gay till I met a bear.

As the credits rolled, I calmed down.

I thought, “Well, maybe that scene in ‘Queer as Folk’ is not a departure from their usual excellent production.”

“It’s actually completely realistic.”

“It accurately portrays how utterly clueless a ‘mainstream’ gay man would be about bears!”