Popingay

If gay were a choice, I’d choose gay

It’s well-documented that being gay is not a choice, and considering the one Xmas I received a calculator instead of a Tamagotchi, I’m pretty sure the power of prayer is even less effective at keeping me away from penises. But considering a hypothetical world where sexual orientation and gender identity were a choice, I can conclusively say that I would pick gay again, and again, and again.

“Why would anyone want to be gay if they had the choice?” I’ve heard this argument from queer folks and pitying straights alike who think that being gay (although innate) is a recipe for a difficult life of secrets and discrimination. And I’m not going to say that there aren’t struggles for queer individuals. We live in a largely unfriendly world, and even though there are wonderful people, and things are changing, the reality is that the world is not a wonderland for those on the rainbowy side of life.

But I’d rather ask, if we’re talking about your religious-socially-conservative version of heterosexuality as the alternative: who in their right mind would choose to be straight?

Your straightness is a culture of no. Living your life according to rigid sexual and gender roles to maintain your fragile sense of sexuality, gender, and self. As a man only willing to like sports, cars, beer, and objectifying women because you’re afraid that your love of ballet would somehow destroy your straightness. Or declaring the very end of the world itself because your son painted his toenails pink or likes to play with makeup. Or making your worth directly correlated to your attractiveness or the fertility of your womb. Because your kind of straight tells you no, no you cannot do, like, enjoy, or want whatever is in your heart.

But gayness, queerness, is a culture of yes! Yes I can profess my deep-seated love of musical theatre and shirtless men dancing to electronic music. Yes I can also like sports, or fatty foods, or watching horror movies in my sweatpants.

And sexually? If I enjoy being pounded by a hairy man-beast while trussed up like a Christmas turkey, then god damn it our community will let me go for it. Because if you don’t like it, well then fuck you.

And we stand up for each other’s right to be individuals, to choose our own paths in life free from judgement, interference, or control. It might not be what I want per se, but if it’s how you are, then you damn well better be running down the street in spangly gold booty shorts shrieking Beyonce tunes at the top of your lungs and grabbing your genitals. Whether lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, queer, or whatever permutation under the umbrella you are, or if you’re our equally important straight allies, we are the ones who say YES. YES, BE YOURSELF!

Because it’s not just the fight for me to be fabulously gay, but the right for me to be fabulously, and unabashedly me no matter what that looks like.

Go ahead, tell me my life is sad and hard, and no one would or should want it. Because me, and all those with me, know who really has it hard, and we’ve got each other’s backs while you are busy stabbing your own.

So ask yourself again if being gay is a choice. Because if it were, then who would ever choose to be straight?

Eating ice cream in public makes me feel violated

It’s no big secret that I’m not good with heat. I don’t mind the occasional warm weather, but what I’m talking about is heat-wave-old-people-and-children-dying-oh-my-god-can’t-I-just-die-Hell-must-be-cooler heat. Which for whiny, heat-sensitive me is anything over 20 degrees Celsius. Anything in the hot or humid range turns me into a sweat-monster who soaks through all his clothes and desperately fans himself with such pathetic instruments as his iPod—anything for the slightest breeze.

It’s no wonder, then, that a summer/travel staple is the ice cream shop. I love ice cream. Fucking love it. If I were given free access to an ice cream shop I would eat the shit out of it faster than the subject of an oral sex joke about lady-bits.

So why does ice cream leave me feeling distinctly dirty when eaten outside the comforting confines of my home when I’ve recently faced romantic rejection? It’s because I feel as though I’m being either privy to someone’s most intimate moments between someone’s mouth and genitals, or I’ve let them be privy to mine.And I’m not one to judge the sexual proclivities of others, but surrounded by a gaggle of international and sweaty tourists is not the place for that business.

I want you to think about the way you eat an ice cream cone—particularly if it’s the extra-tall spirally kind of soft serve. How do you eat it? There seem to be three schools of ice-cream eating thought (which I think may be a direct reflection on the eater’s oral sex competency):

1. The Blowjob
   This person sucks on the cone as though it’s a penis and the creamy white goodness is worth the languid, full-mouth stimulation. [I’m of this school. Guess why.]
2. The Licker
   Perhaps the most common representation in cartoons because it would otherwise look pretty obscene and difficult to explain to ratings boards. Still, it’s a fine way to eat the cone, especially should there be any dripping down the sides. [I have a terrible deformity in shape of the shortest tongue in the world and so find myself deprived of this joy. Thank god no one expects cunnilingus out of me.]
3. The Biter
   Although the most efficient way of getting as much ice cream in your mouth at once, its oral sex implications worry me.

No matter which way you like it, you still look like you’re making sweet, sweet oral love to your dessert, and although I might think it’s pretty great to watch some attractive Euro boy go at it in the street (or whatever you like), the general ratio between people you find attractive and those you don’t skews very much to the 1:100 range, and as a result you people you find no attraction to, old people, family, and children all partaking in this, and that’s just really uncomfortable (though if you’re attracted to any of these groups, just leave them out of the list—except children and family, you monster).

It really only gets worse when you’re talking popsicles, because giving a confectionary blowjob is really the only way to eat it. In fact, of those things that, when looking back on it, probably indicated my fabulousness, next to me idolizing She-Ra and secretly believing that I would one day be a Sailor Scout (the Sailor Moon Stars series left me believing that boys too can become magical, ass-kicking princess in mini-skirts—shut up), it was definitely popsicles that hinted to my future love of cock. I remember really enjoying deep-throating popsicles as a kid. I liked it going down the back of my throat and being all juicy and sweet. And I’m sure that some future Freudian therapist will look at this and promptly declare me some sort of terrible sexual deviant.  Which would be a pretty accurate description.

But since ice cream and popsicles aren’t going anywhere as I slowly melt into a puddle formerly called human, I guess I’ll have to put up with the scary public porniness of it all. And enjoy those few who pull it off.