Flamed

I have written before about the events for Fireflag, the gay firefighters group, at Ty's bar on this blog.

A couple of weeks ago they had another event. There is, as I have said, a buffet, and for five dollars you can enter a raffle in which the prizes include a substantial amount of cash [at least $100 and generally more].

There are guys who come in, stuff their faces with food, and never buy any tickets. The issue that some customers wouldn't be around for the drawing was addressed: consider the five bucks a donation they were told [I mean you're getting good food]. Or give your tickets away. If you know somebody in the bar, given them your tickets and ask them to let you know if you win.

Well, at this particular event one of the Fireflag members sat by the buffet selling tickets. A few people slipped by while he was getting ready, but he told everyone else that they had to buy tickets before they ate. I thought this was an excellent idea and told him so. "It's an uphill battle," he told me. And this for the gay firefighters who risk their lives ... ?

Suddenly two guys I had never seen before rushed up to the buffet, grabbing plates. He told them the buffet was only for ticket holders. The first guy started screeching at him that he "gave every month" or something along those lines, even though I had never before seen him at a Fireflag event or even at Ty's. He became hysterical, and even called the fireman a faggot. Then the other guy who was with him snapped at the same fellow I hope your house -- or the bar, I foget which -- burns down.

Lovely! Talk about bitchy queens who need some valium -- or therapy.

Some people go berserk when they see free food [or an open bar]! The night before the Fireflag evening I had been at a wonderful event given for the 30th anniversary of the Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation. [No, I was not one of the old wrecks they were preserving!] After awards were given out to notable village establishments and individuals, there was a reception up the block at the Forbes Gallery. Inside the lobby there was a table of food. I went in the other room to get some wine and when I returned the table was absolutely surrounded by people -- mostly seniors -- three deep who were gobbling everything they could get their hands on and wouldn't make room for anyone else to get a nibble. I said to a young lady watching this spectacle; "You'd think they hadn't had a decent meal for weeks!"

Luckily, as this was the 30th anniversary, the Society went all out, and there were not only two open bars with every kind of top shelf liquor imaginable, but waiters came around with trays of delicious appetizers, so nobody went hungry. It was a Class A event.

Now most of the people gobbling up everything on that table were straight, but I bet they wouldn't have paid a measley five dollars for all the free food and booze,either. It's not that the people at the Society gathering -- or the men at Ty's -- can't afford it, but there's just something that makes people go crazy when it's free. I know of at least one man who goes to every free buffet at every gay bar he can find, even though he has plenty of money and goes out to dinner two or three times a week. No, he doesn't give five dollars to Fireflag. Fuck him! [I mean even Larry, the wonderful guy who makes the food every month, buys tickets!]

I guess it's human nature, and not especially a gay thing. But I do wish that some of the hungry tightwads at the Fireflag events were more supportive of the organization and their gay brothers.

As for those two screeching queens who made such a fuss. Happy Gay Pride, brothers -- and go to hell!

FIREFLAG -- and Cheap Gay Men

The second Tuesday of each month the local chapter of the gay firefighters, FIREFLAG, meet and have a party at my favorite bar, Ty's, on Christopher Street. There is a buffet with wonderful food made by Larry, and a raffle in which the top prize can be a couple of hundred dollars. You can go up to the buffet more than once; all that the guys from FIREFLAG ask is that you buy a few raffle tickets for a measly five bucks. [You would think that they wouldn't have to ask, but they do.]

Some guys go up, stuff their faces with three or more plates of food, buy one lousy drink (without leaving a tip) and never buy any raffle tickets.

Talk about cheap! Talk about not supporting our gay firefighters!

Some guys will give the excuse that they won't be around at 11 PM or later when the raffle takes place. Bug fucking deal! The tickets are only five dollars, and the food (especially if you have three to-the-brim platefuls!) is worth a lot more than that. [And whether it's hot dogs with potato salad or something fancier it's always delicious.] These guys could certainly support FIREFLAG and help pay for the food with a $5 donation. Most of these guys know one or two people who will stay for the raffle, so they could always hand them their tickets and say "tell me if I win anything." Or they could just give the tickets away [as many who can't stay late do] and say "if you win, you win." [Which is what I would do if I couldn't stay for the raffle.]

I have a friend who talks about "cheap gay men." He's not saying that all or most gay men are cheap; he's referring to friends and acquaintances of his whom he knows have plenty of income but are tight-fisted with the cash -- I mean five dollars to support a gay outfit and get several plates of food! Even if you didn't have something to eat most people could spare five dollars.

Some of these guys may be senior citizens on a fixed income [but it's still only five dollars and free food!] Yet some of them worked hard all their lives, have plenty of savings, no children or grand-children to support or spoil, and no serious financial worries. So what's up with them?

I mean we're talking five dollars!

And supporting a gay organization made up of fuckin' heroes.

Okay, Freudian slip. Some of these gay firefighters are quite attractive. [There's one cutie pie I've been after for two years; not that it's likely I'll ever get him. When he tells me to hold out my arm so he can measure off the raffle tickets I get a tingle. Sue me.] I'm not a firefighter groupie, believe me, but firemen have to be in good shape, after all.

It's unfortunate that one of the raffle prices isn't a date with a firefighter. They'd collect even more money than they do. [One of the prizes is $20 towards your bar tab. That would last me about an hour.]

But, as usual, I digress.

Anyway, if per chance you head over to Ty's to support our gay firefighters, buy some raffle tickets, have some food, enjoy some inexpensively priced cocktails, and generously tip Gary, Donnie, Jesse and the other wonderful bartenders.

And no, they're not paying me to say this!

Ciao. Or rather, Chow!

Dealing with Getting Older

A friend of mine looked over the crowd at Ty's bar one night and said, "Everyone here is over the hill."

"Speak for yourself!" I told him.


Everyone knows that it's no picnic growing older in a society that
mostly scorns and demeans older people, sometimes out of ignorance and stupidity and more often out of fear. Younger people mock those who are older because they're terrified of growing older themselves. This is true in both gay and straight communities.

The thing is that, while no one wants to get older and that much closer to old age, possible sickness and indignity, and an undeniable death, having a bad attitude will only make things worse. It's one thing when twenty somethings make stupid remarks and give attitude to older people, but let's not do it to ourselves. Getting older is like being gay. There are enough people out there putting us down, let's not make things worse by adding to it.

When it comes to middle-aged gay men (and this probably applies to straight men as well) I've noticed there seem to be (for our purposes, at least) two kinds.

The first kind has completely given up on love and sex and dating and doesn't remember the last time they got laid or the last time they were on a date -- it's been that long. They may feel they're too old, or have let themselves go and have a negative self-image (more on this later), or they just want to drink, have fun, and forget about everything else. To quote a line from Dodsworth (the film version) they're rushing at old age. These men may only be in their forties but they might as well be elderly (although may I say right now that there are elderly men who are more vital and active than their middle-aged counterparts).

The second kind (count me in this group) don't let age -- however old they are -- stop them from doing whatever it is they want to do. And they certainly haven't given up on sex, dating, the search for love, or what-have-you.

A lot of middle-aged men have let themselves get out of shape, but this should not be a deterrent to a love life. In the bear community, for instance, you don't have to be slim, handsome or smooth-skinned, and for those who are looking for younger conquests, there are many cubs looking for "daddies." True, not all out-of-shape men have a bear "aura," but it isn't all that difficult to get back into shape. I found that regular exercise -- nothing too extreme -- and watching what you consume worked wonders.

Frankly, I can't understand people who let their age define them. One of my closest friends, Larry, enjoyed the pursuit (and you shouldn't have to ask pursuit of what) until he was in his seventies, and was successful more often than not. But it isn't just about sex; it's about everything. I refuse to put limits on myself as I age and I don't want anyone else putting limits on me.

The friend who made the "over the hill" remark wasn't being unkind. He's certainly not over the hill but he's in a difficult period of his life, grieving for a lost loved one, and this understandably colors his attitude.

Later that night at Ty's I met a guy who was as horny as I was and helped remind me that Ty's -- even if most of the customers are middle-aged and up -- can be very cruisy, and that the party doesn't stop at 45, 50, or older. Many middle-aged men, even senior citizens, are still quite attractive -- and damned good in bed (experience never hurts). There's a reason why there are jars full of condoms on the bar at Ty's.

Sure, guys in their 20's may snicker at the thought of, say, a hot 52-year-old, but they don't know what they're missing. Far from being over the hill, I'd dare say I'm better at just about everything than I was twenty years ago.

The sad truth -- one which younger people often just don't want to face -- is that we all get older and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it.

Except adjust your attitude and live life to the fullest regardless of how old you are!

Gay Pride Doings

THE BEST LAID PLANS

Okay, these are two things I don't usually do on this blog, run sexy photos like this one of these two leather guys kissing, and talk a bit about my personal life. But what the hell?

Gay Pride weekend didn't quite go off the way I intended it would, but what can you do? I think the Gay Pride March in New York is extremely important, but I can also be a little cynical about it. I wonder how many of those marching -- or parading -- go right back in the closet as soon as they get home. Still, at least it's good that they "come out" for that one day, though preferably we'd all be out 365 days a year. How else will people learn who and what we are?

Despite this cynical feeling I was going to march but a very close elderly friend of mine asked if I would accompany him to the PRIDEfest on Hudson Street instead -- the march would be too much for him. I agreed, but on the Sunday in question he didn't want to go out in the rain. Well, when you're elderly I say you've earned the right to say, fuck it, I don't wanna go and that's that! But by the time he'd come to his decision the march was nearly over.

It's too bad the PRIDEfest --due to permit hassles and so on -- had to be held the very same day as the March. The rain came and went but it was not a terribly festive event, at least when I was there. There were the usual booths selling food and other items like are featured in every other street fair. The thing that made this one different were that now and then there'd be a booth from GMHC, the New York Blade, Human Rights Campaign, and so on, and if some people from small towns were able to gain info and insight from these booths, I guess the PRIDEFest served its purpose. I saw none of the promised street entertainers but at least we were spared mimes (sorry).

So that night I was all ready, willing and able to party. I made new friends, saw old ones, and re-connected with some people I haven't seen in a while. I had a great time all told, although there were "incidents" in every bar I went to.

Down at the Dug Out at the bottom of Christopher Street I ran into a guy that I was supposed to have a date with on Friday (we'd met some weeks earlier in a bar). Unfortunately, there was some confusion and misunderstanding and it never came off. He was not too thrilled with this development -- neither was I, of course -- and I wanted to sink into the floor with guilt and slink out the back door. Still, it was odd. He said he had the use of a friend's apartment for the night and wanted me to come up. Instead of simply giving me the address and apartment number -- which, after all, would be the usual thing to do -- he told me he'd meet me on one of the four street corners nearby, this on a busy Friday night on one of the busiest intersections in Manhattan. It just seemed weird to me, and it seemed even weirder when he later told me that he did this because "I didn't know the address."

"But you told me you were calling from this friend's apartment?" I said. How could he not know the address? And there was some other stuff relating to this, none of which made much sense.

You see, I figured either he was blowing me off ("Gee, I guess we must have missed each other in the crowd") at best or at worst something else strange was going on. Was there even an apartment? Did he have the friend's permission to use it? Was I being overly paranoid? Possibly. But I decided not to go.

"I waited for 45 minutes!" he said. "I checked out every cab! What's wrong with meeting someone on a street corner -- You could go to an apartment and get jumped by four guys!"

I apologized profusely, wishing I had handled it all better, and knowing he had instantly classified me as "asshole." I mentioned a terrible thing that happened to an acquaintance of mine a few years ago. Still, I wish he had accepted some responsibility for what happened. I asked a number of people about it and everyone told me they also thought that meeting at an intersection when there was an apartment waiting seemed a strange thing to do. I had suggested to him that we might have a drink or two at a bar beforehand, but he said if it was up to him he'd rather we just get down to business. As one guy said, "it's like he didn't want to be seen with you in any bar where people knew you."

Too bad. He's probably a perfectly nice fellow, an attractive man, but all I can say is if I was as anxious as he says he was to get my hands on somebody I would have made damn sure I knew the address and the apartment number and told my date to ring the buzzer at the prescribed hour. But maybe that's just me.

Anyhoo, the next incident was at Ty's bar. My favorite place, it's generally a no-attitude bar and that's one of the things I like about it. Tonight, a few fellows brought an Eagle/Aren't I wonderful? attitude with them, these absolutely massive men brushing past everybody without even bothering to say "excuse me" as they stepped on your feet and practically knocked the drink out of your hand, not bothering to turn sideways or something so that they could walk on by without knocking into you.

Then there was the bathroom monitor, some guy I guess they hired for the night to direct the customers into which bathroom they should go. (Don't ask me why. We've never needed a bathroom monitor before.) Talk about attitude -- this guy had not a trace of friendliness about him and this in a bar where the staff is very friendly and down to earth.

To cap it all, I was cruised (I think) by a guy with a really bad pick up line: "I love my wife."

Well, then, go home to her and leave me the fuck alone. Yes, it was my umpteenth married homosexual talking about how he loved his wife (but was probably not in love with her) but absolutely hungered for a man. Conversationally, I asked if he might be bisexual, and of course he seized upon this, but we both knew he was homo, not bi, and that whenever he has sex outside of wedlock it's with a man. (You see, it sounds much better to say you're a "hip" swingin' bisexual than a pathetic old-fashioned closet queen.)

"I love my wife," he repeated. "What do you want me to do?"

I wanted to say, just leave me alone, that's what you can do, but before I could tell him I didn't want him to do a damn thing but go, he disappeared into the crowd, which is what married homosexuals always do when they meet someone Out and Proud who are in no mood for their bullshit. He wasn't celebrating Gay pride by coming out or getting past his shame over being homosexual, he just wanted to get laid and go home and lie some more to his wife.

Up at Boots and Saddle near 7th avenue, there was a lively, affectionate crowd. It's becoming a fun place again. Then suddenly I turn my head and find myself staring into the face of The Malevolent Munchkin of Christopher Street. How ironic to find him there on Gay Pride Sunday. Apparently he was working at some place across the street and was on a break or something. The last time we faced each other he was trying -- unsuccessfully -- to throw me out of the bar (he no longer works there) because I supposedly said something he didn't like. (Imagine, bartenders who want to monitor your conversation and insist you leave because they don't like what you're saying! And no, it wasn't because I had too much to drink, because you can practically be lying on the floor at Boots and they'll serve you.)

Mercifully, the munchkin took one look at me and went outside to chat with one of his former co-workers, now the manager. I used to be fond of the munchkin, but when someone I'm nice to treats me like shit I write them off at least until they apologize.

Munchkins! Married Homosexuals! Angry Intersectionists! Big Rude Guys with Attitude "straight" from the Eagle!

You never know what or who you'll run into on Gay Pride Sunday.

Post-Married Homosexuals

Click here and you'll see my post on "Married Homosexuals," homosexual men who marry women. Today I'm going to discuss homosexual men who come out of the closet, divorce their wives, and become post-Married homosexuals.

In some cases these men (and their lesbian equivalents) become happily and proudly Gay, work out all their problems, shrug off the internalized homophobia and lack of self-esteem that led them to get married in the first place, and live happily ever after as Gay Men.

In other cases, they just can't quite give up those heterosexual privileges. And they can't quite give up the wife (and vice versa).

Some years ago I had a friend we'll call Sid. Sid had been married for many years and had a grown son. He cruised gay bars often -- which is where I met him, although we were never lovers or even a one-night-stand -- and I think he might have wanted a man for a long-term partner. He was having trouble finding a relationship, however, although he seemed to have no trouble getting laid. My problem with him wasn't that he had been married. Sid would call me up to go out bar-hopping, and spend an hour or so talking about all of his problems. When he was finally through and wrung all the advice out of me that I had to give, I would turn to him and start to talk just a little about my life. More likely than not, I would be looking at Sid's back. Now that Sid had gotten everything off his chest, he wanted to cruise and I had become superfluous.

Now there's nothing whatsoever wrong with going out with a friend for a few drinks and later in the evening you both do a bit of cruising. However most friends won't just yak at you but will engage in honest-to-goodness conversation with you for an hour or two before they turn their attention to some serious cruising. Sid would literally turn his back on me, as if dismissing me for the evening. Often I had just ordered a new drink and was in a bar that I didn't feel like cruising in or wasn't even in the mood for cruising. I was out with a friend and wanted to talk. It was as if I had served my purpose -- kept him company and held his hand, figuratively speaking, let him dump his load on me until the two or so beers he'd consumed had given him enough courage to go on some serious man-hunting. I told him I would just as soon go out cruising on my own. I realized that it would have been better if Sid and I had just remained bar friends and never tried to become good friends outside of the bar.

Of course I told Sid how I felt, hoping he would understand and it might either make our friendship stronger or destroy it. It was the latter. Sid merely accused me of being "possessive." Believe me, I did not need him to hang on my every word or sit by my side all evening, but "dismissing" someone because you feel like cruising after they've served their purpose is pretty rude as far as I'm concerned. I liked Sid, thought he had a good sense of humor and was intelligent, but his defensive, negative reaction made it clear that we could not have an intelligent dialogue on the whole issue and that things would never improve. We managed to make our way over to another bar, where he promptly went over to someone he knew, didn't introduce me, and -- damn it -- literally angled his body so that his back was toward me once again. I was being put in my place, I guess. I can cruise with the best of them and have no problem making new friends on my own, but this was not a bar that I especially enjoyed, so I just left, went to a better place, and left a message for Sid that I'd prefer it if he wouldn't bother me anymore.

I don't know if Sid ever found a lover. A few months after this incident I saw him walking down the street with his ex-wife, holding hands, practically skipping, as if they were still the happy couple. (They had a son together and remained friends after the divorce, but I don't think the wife had ever "moved on" in any serious fashion.) I'd be willing to bet that Sid became one of these post-marrieds who got disenchanted with the gay lifestyle when guys didn't flock to his door or a male lover didn't magically appear within a month or two. Was Sid one of these guys who just couldn't make it without the woman at his side and went back to her? (I know gay guys who have, unfortunately, become involved with post-marrieds like this to their ultimate regret.). No, I don't think that was the case. If he went back to his wife it was probably because he was lonely, knew that she loved him, and hadn't found any man who felt the same way. If the two of them re-married I would have to call Sid a post-post-married homosexual, I suppose.

Of course, some married homosexuals never become post-married. Just last month I met a man in his sixties at Ty's bar who told me he had a wife and children. When I asked him if he was bisexual he snapped "No, I'm gay!" and proceeded to give out with all the politically correct verbiage I would expect of someone out and proud like myself. But he was still married and his wife and kids, probably every other relative and straight friend he had, didn't know he was gay. As another patron at Ty's put it, "He's completely and totally gay but he just never divested himself of the wife." This sort of individual can hardly be classified as any kind of gay activist in any real sense, but his pro-gay attitude seemed entirely genuine, although I admit our conversation was hardly in-depth. What was that I was saying about "hetero privileges?"

Bizarre. I'm thankful I knew who and what I was at a relatively early age. There is no greater happiness than that of self-acceptance.