gay nostalgia

[Title] fabulous disposition: queer life, love and drama in this prairie town
[Deck] gay nostalgia
[Byline] sean manson

Once upon a Friday night at the gay bar, I was caught off guard when someone else was caught with their pants down. It all happened as I was engaging in some casual liquid therapy. Attracted to the pulsating beats of the artist formerly known as Britney Spears, I gravitated towards the dance floor when I saw the half-naked boy in question being dragged off it.

I must admit that it takes quite a bit to shock me these days, especially here in gay ol’ Winnipeg. But something about the sight of this scantily-clad queer youth threw me for a loop. As I did my best Emmett under the neon lights, I struggled to put my finger what exactly was troubling me. Something told me he previously had no problems putting his finger on it, but that is beside the point. Then just like a prayer it struck me! Maybe it was the music, or maybe it was just insight – but I was jealous. I wanted to be caught with my pants down! Well not exactly.

A little Freudian part of me cannot help but feel envious as kids come out younger and younger these days. Do not get me wrong, I am more than happy for them … yeah pride! But in the utmost symbolic sense, in their jovial carelessness I see the reflection of a gay past I missed out on. It’s not like given the chance I would drop my pants as soon I could turn back the clock. But sometimes I do wonder what life at eighteen would’ve been like outside the closet. That is until I see a picture from my childhood.

As soon as I fumble through a family photo album or pick up a yearbook, it always occurs to me how misled I am. Who I am kidding I missed out on a homosexual past? I knew from the second I left a vagina that I would never be going back. Nothing about my elementary days was heterosexual and certainly nothing about my adolescence was either. Sure, maybe I didn’t get to make out with any boys at high school dances, but that never stopped me from awkwardly staring at them.

I knew from the second I left a vagina that I would never be going back.

Clearly I realized that all this heavy thinking at the bar could only mean one thing – I did not have enough to drink. As I headed back to the bar with another five dollars in my hand, I could not help but smile. Because like him, I too had finally been able to put my finger on it. And in my books, on Friday night at the gay bar, that most definitely equals a happily ever after.

Published: Outwords Inc. # 151 March 28 – May 15, 2008