The Gay Mafia

I will preface the following post by saying, this is my opinion of something I’ve seen happening in the gay community–based on behavior I’ve experienced first hand. While I would like to believe this is an isolated thing, I know it isn’t. And I wish it were. All this talk of unity, standing up for each other to ensure the LGBT community is treated fairly and with respect . . . well, maybe it should start from within. You can’t put catty bitches at the head of the charge and expect the world to listen.

On with the show.

There is one club here in town I go to occasionally, which will remain unnamed. It is large enough to not feel like the walls are closing in and the sound waves from the music will turn my brain to jelly. However, it is also fairly relaxed with a few regular clients who more or less keep to themselves–no creepy guys trying to sneak up behind you for a dance, and in my world, that’s a huge plus. I don’t trust strangers behind me. Anyway . . . of the regulars at the club, there is one group of 40-50 something gay men who gather like hens around a pile of corn at the end of the bar. And they gossip. And they watch. Nothing anyone does in the club goes unnoticed. They know who you arrived with, who you danced with, how much you’ve drank, and who you scurry off to the bathroom with while giggling. There’s no escaping their notice. Which is strange, because typically I pride myself on my ability to blend in when I just don’t want to be stared at. I’ve always garnered unwanted attention–until recently I was fat, tall, and loud. I’m still tall and loud, but I’ve shrunk enough to where I can hide easier.

These gossip mongers have determined, over the course of this last year, that I am “one of them.”

But who is, “Them?” Them typically refers to bisexual girls who are open and honest about their sexuality . . . and drink in public. Sure, I may only ever have one drink when I’m in at a club, but it is enough to convince the Gay Mafia that I’m a slutty bi chick who’ll interfere with happy couples just to get my rocks off. Go ahead and laugh, I do. Guys, if I were half as slutty as everyone seems to think after watching me for an hour at the club, I wouldn’t go to bed alone. Ever.

There’s no convincing the Gay Mafia, though. I’ve gotten sub-arctic looks from them when I bounce off the dance floor to grab a glass of water. All because when I’m in the mood, I’ll dance with everyone. Closely. With lots of roaming hands. Big fleshy deal. I’m not hurting anyone. I certainly haven’t screwed up anyone’s relationship that I’m aware of. But these men are all settled down, in long-term relationships and it makes them believe that everyone in the gay community needs to settle down. That if we’d all just stop screwing around, the rest of society won’t assume we’d marry our Doberman, turtles, and shit even a toaster once gay marriage is made legal in the entirety of the United States. We’re sexually open, not monsters.

They can’t be the bigger people. Where as, the world looks at a small slutty slice of the gay community and uses it to label us all sluts, I don’t look at extremest Christians and say they’re all whack jobs. Society is not solely compromised of the extremes. You can’t shame someone for embracing who they are–when it isn’t harming anyone–all for the sake of redefining a reputation that shouldn’t be there in the first place. If you make an issue of something, the people standing against you will see the chink in your armor and attack there first. Congratulations, gays, you’re handing the religious fanatics weapons to use against us.

Stop it.

Stop being catty, judgmental assholes. You don’t have the full story of a person’s life from watching them at a club. Most of the time, if I’m out dancing, I’ve been fighting depression and need to physically exhaust myself to level out. But they don’t see that. They don’t see the concerned friends who offered to come with, or that they’re making sure I am having fun while we’re copping a feel just to get a laugh. I grabbed someone’s ass. It doesn’t mean I’m stealing them away from anyone. It means I’m comfortable enough with them to get the physical human interaction I lack during the 13 hour days I spend alone in my office.

Gays, club life is not real life. And if you believe it is, get your head out of high school drama and into the real world. There’s far more important things to worry about than what the supposedly drunk bi chick is doing with her hands.

I’m typing. Get your heads out of the gutter.

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