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?

Bonjour Bitches: The gayest cowboy since Brokeback Mountain

Being born and raised in a city whose main source of pride is the annual largest rodeo in the world, you can say that being a cowboy is in my blood. If by being a cowboy you mean putting on a pink cowboy hat, getting wasted, and making out with guys. I am determined to bring more gay to cowboys than the release of Brokeback Mountain.

Which is why, when our Montreal school-sanctioned activity for the evening promised a trip to Rodeo Rock’n’Bull, I felt compelled to go there and defend my cowboy honour. Only hours before I had another one of my, I suppose you could say, “episodes”. Thankfully I wouldn’t be alone in defending my redneck roots as the all-fabulous Kaitlin in my program hailed from Northern Alberta, and was further into redneck territory than I could ever go. She’s the Patsy Montana to my Dolly Parton (or whatever the hell analogy fits in here—I assume since country music doesn’t qualify as legitimate music, my thirty-second Google search was enough).

What we would find out is that a Quebecois rodeo was kind of like the Epcotting of our Western roots in that it’s a close approximation that was completely hilarious to us. (If you want a similar experience, visit your country’s pavilion in Disney World; seriously, you won’t stop laughing).

If you wanted, you could proudly take a photo of you riding a cow. On a saddle. Like a horse. Because apparently there was a shortage of horses, and cows were the next best thing. And the food proudly featured Quebec staples of beaver tails and poutine, which had as much relevance to country-western cuisine as fois gras.

I was, however, really excited to show off my near-mastery of the Cadillac Ranch line dance that was driven into my brain in childhood gym classes, only to find that the open and exhibition line-dance areas were actually people doing the Electric Slide to Ricky Martin. I don’t even have a witty comment on that, I’m just as confused as you are.

Perhaps the highlight of the night, though, had everything to do with the prominent, centrally-located mechanical bull that was open for riding and gave me the chance to satisfy my every Coyote Ugly dream (that’s a country-esque reference, right? Wow I’m bad at this). Because this got to happen:

 Making the world’s worst o-face, and, for the first time, not riding a penis.

I’d like to believe I successfully defended my cowboy heritage by not being thrown off a bucking mechanical bull immediately, and I lasted long enough to go up a couple levels of crotch-smashing delight.

But at the end of the day, my inability to string together even the most basic of country-western jokes proves that I am much better suited to riding cowboys than being one.