It is not a shirt I wear or a placard I brandish. It is an ID I keep in my wallet and only show to those who want to confirm if indeed I am a card carrying member of the federation. I’m not referring to the Star Trek Federation, mind you. I am a member of the federation of men who choose to love and have a romantic relationship with other men (with all the perks and niceties, together with the negative allusions it entails). I am a gay man. Just like any other human being who is a member of the upwardly mobile middle class.
In the morning, I would compliment my boss’ choice of clothes, how it matches her footwear, and the bracelet that serves as an accent piece that pulls the entire ensemble together. At the same time, I would chastise her for not allocating enough time for styling her hair to achieve maximum style and volume. Through the course of the day, I would rant about not meeting the man of my dreams and still not finding myself in a loving and nurturing relationship with another gay man. When it’s time to leave the office, my straight male officemates would invite me to a drinking session. And if circumstances are conducive, we would even go to a girly bar and watch the performers strut their wares on the stage. Upon reaching the bar and ordering our beer, we would commence with our contest: who among us row of burly handsome men can illicit the elusive smile of the naked female performer on the stage. I would usually win. I won’t end up having sex with the girl (perish the thought) a wish that my officemates are bent on realizing. I would rather be a friend to these girls and give them tips on how to maintain the luster in their locks.
Suave. That is how they would describe my ability to blend in the crowd and yet maintain my uniqueness. (All us queens come equipped with mobile spotlights, you see). My brand of homosexuality, in the eyes of my female friends, is an affirmation of the positive traits that a gay man posses, a sensitive yet firm disposition, loyal and trusted friend to each and every fag hag, and impeccable fashion sense. My kind of homosexuality, on the other hand, is not an affront to the masculinity and macho culture embraced by my male colleagues. It is not an act or a put on. It is not contrived or done out of necessity (I do admit that I enjoy bonding with my male friends). It’s just the way it is. Being gay is a part of me. It is a facet of my life that defines me as a person but it is not the end-all and be-all. I do not flaunt it nor highlight it whenever the opportunity arises. Nor do I deny it whenever it is under siege or even questioned. Being gay is just another part of me, the same way that my values, education and upbringing define me. Maybe it’s just another form of being in the closet, dismissing being gay as “just another facet” of my personality. But I’d rather think that it is an evolution in the way we perceive our homosexuality. An acceptance that we are gay but there are other dimensions that define us as a person.
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