As a straight man, I’ve always felt separated from gayness. I’m open minded and think that homosexuality is as normal as red hair, but never gave much thought to gay life, until recently. My friend Will – who is gay – asked me to help him install new, hardwood floors in his apartment. Ironically, this manly work – hammering, swearing, using dangerous power saws – gave me a look at gay culture, uncensored and unplugged.
Will lives in Chelsea, the neighborhood considered ground zero for New York’s gay community. Clothing boutiques feature male mannequins in languid poses, often with one fist clinched (signs of a militant gay power movement?). Shops use gratuitous cardboard cutouts of shirtless muscle-guys to sell vitamins or paint or real estate. I once had a few minutes to kill outside a small grocery store; every magazine in the window showed a naked man with a neat haircut, his eyes gazing at homosexual America. But there was nothing for me; not one single pouty chick exposing her cleavage. Ugh.
Every morning I walked to Will’s apartment, above14th Street and near 8th Avenue. It was a journey out of Heteroland and into Gayville. Marco Polo probably felt the same way. I was an outsider, on Will’s turf. In Chelsea, there was no need for my gaydar; all men were assumed queer; guilty until proven innocent. I assumed other people assumed the same of me. Only a black AC/DC t-shirt could have made them think me straight.
There were occasional islands of hetero life, usually in hardware stores. Inside these safe havens of lumber and crowbars, I felt comfortable again, back in the sexual majority.
As for my friend Will, he’s not flamboyant, doesn’t have limp wrists or a lisp, and never primps himself like a movie star. Will acts pretty ‘normal’, but somehow – subtly – communicates his sexual orientation. Most of his friends are gay, he’s gay, he goes to gay bars, listens to what I’d definitely consider gay music, and has interior furnishings that could inspire Elton John to write a song. Gay, gay, gay.
But I had to admit, Will’s having more fun than any straight people I know. He’s fabulous.
We began work, spackling and sanding. Our first conversations introduced me to gay slang, which is alive and well: fabulous, über gay (very gay), fab pad (a great apartment), the runway (8th Ave between 14th and 23rd streets, where the best looking guys are on parade), usual damage (for the same old), and tricks (one night stand). Will refers to himself as a middle-aged queen and gay men as fags. He once jammed his thumb with a hammer and said, “Fuck me raw!”, an expression I never caught myself saying.
While installing the first floor boards, talk moved to Broadway shows. I sang something I subconsciously learned from a Gap commercial; Will instantly knew it was “America” from West Side Story. Will also does a mean Julie Andrews impersonation. Only a brick wouldn’t laugh when he uses her voice to sing such songs as “Like a Rolling Stone” and the theme song to Three’s Company.
Another good thing about gay friends is their secret information on who’s gay. There must be a “Who’s Gay?” directory published every year, sold only to fellow gays. I never realized how many TV personalities I watched as a kid were covert queens; back then, straight America was clueless. Paul Lynde (a Hollywood Squares icon), the Doctor from Lost in Space, Charles Nelson Riley, and maybe even the skipper from Gilligan’s Island. It struck me how much hiding homosexuals used to do. Today, society seems better. Will is out to his family and at work, and every week he watches Will and Grace. Commercial programming has targeted his buying power.
After a week, the carpentry was growing exhausting. Will’s friends often called to lend moral support. Sheesh. Moral support? How gay is that? Once, Will gushed emotional frustration over the phone, like an Opera diva. “This project is taking years off my life. I’m overwhelmed. Had I any idea it would be this much torture, I’d have just hired a contractor.” Were I to inflict such a monologue on one of my straight friends, they’d put the phone down to grab a beer.
Other calls concerned the all-gay investment club Will was organizing. Twenty-plus fags (his word, not mine) were pooling their money, forming a limited partnership, and voting on which assets to include in the club’s portfolio. I read somewhere (so it’s true!) that the average gay man in New York City earns $75,000 per year. If the sense of community and style weren’t reason enough to be queer, think of the cash.
We always ate at nearby FoodBar, where the mood was fabulously gay. John, one of the owners, would meet Will with a kiss (“kissing the money” as Will called it); I was ready to straight arm him if he tried that on me. A large sunroof illuminated the dining area, where very fit men in tight shirts sat at tables of two, casting eyes at all who walked in. I felt like we were entering a gay debutant ball, announced over the PA system. “Gentlemen and gentlemen, I present you: Will and Trevor!”
On one day, a pretty, young waitress served us. She put her smooth, cool hand on my neck and said, “What would you boys like?” You boys? No! He’s kidnapped me. He’s got a gun under the table. I tried to use ESP to tell her, “I’m not gay. I’m not gay.” I should have pinched her butt and said, “You’re looking good, sweetheart.”
Later, I asked Will, “How do gay guys typically dress?”
“These days? Dark khakis; chunky, sporty gray and black tennis shoes; and a tight, faux-washed-for-ten-years Abercrombie and Fitch tee shirt … like a young, suburban dad who plays softball on weekends.”
“I look like a suburban dad.”, I thought. “Does this mean I have to start dressing like Metallica?”
After two weeks of work, the floor was almost finished. Will began planning his trip to Washington DC, where homosexuals from across the country were gathering to voice their demands. Politicians, take note of this voting block. Ellen Degeneres was going to speak. On the agenda: same sex marriage, job discrimination, the Boy Scouts, and cocktail parties whenever possible. Will fretted about what to wear.
I tried to imagine a heterosexual march on Washington. The turnout would be 80% guys, drunk and looking to score. The political demands? more straights in the fashion and hairstyling industries; mandatory dance classes for straight boys (where test scores are worse than for reading levels); and a government agency to assist straight men in decorating their apartments.
Will was driving down to DC with some friends. To sing in the car, he rewrote the lyrics to “I Feel Pretty”, from West Side Story. The new version commemorates his beautiful, soundproof floor:
It is pretty, Oh so pretty, Anti-stainy, and grainy and gay! And I pity, Any pad that hasn’t my floor-et, (la-la la-la la la la la la-la) It is planky L loyd Wright, Frankie, Floated Maple, not stapled, no way! And I’m thanky, Only set me back a cool 6K!! (la-la la-la la la la la la-la)See that slanty board in the corner there, (What corner? Where?!) Cutting that was really a bitch! (Wow, yeah, I’ll bet!) Once it was installed,
Everybody called, Could I do their hall? And I said "You Wish"! (la-la la-la la la la la la-la)Wearing hound’s-tooth, On my sound-proof, No more loud poof downstairs can I hear… And it’s done, So won’t someone buy me a beer!!!
Straight guys, lighten up. Odds are, you’re too ugly to make it as a gay man anyway… no need to feel threatened. Some day there’ll be evening classes in gay culture. The Smithsonian will have a mock-up fab pad next to their Iroquois Indian teepee. Me? My bold foray into the caustic and harsh realm of queerdom will be remembered like Rosa Parks, like Gorillas in the Mist, and like Louis and Clark (the first openly gay couple).