Connor Williams
WRTG 3020
Personal Essay
A Gay Ol’ Time
Boobs, tits, jugs. Never had I seen so many damn breasts in my life. It was like all the women of San Francisco had received a “get out of jail free” card for the entirety of PRIDE weekend; or rather, a “show your boobs wherever you go without penalty” card. My sister summed it up nicely: our weekend was increasingly becoming more tit-tastic as the hours passed.
My brother, Michael, moved to California when he was 19, trading mountainous terrain for hilly seaside living without looking back. Erin, my outgoing yet often naïve about gay culture sister, accompanied my boyfriend and I to the Sunny State for a quick getaway. We hadn’t intended on going to San Francisco to see Michael during PRIDE weekend, but also were not disappointed with the coincidence of our planning. After all, the three of us had not experienced a San Franciscan PRIDE and were excited to see what sort of trouble we could get ourselves into over a 72-hour time frame. Little did know it would be full of a plethora of exposed body parts.
We began our weekend of queer, as my family likes to refer to it, with a sibling outing. Being months shy of the glorious 21 cutoff, I was apprehensive of sneaking into the bars on the Castro. However, my brother assured me he had a fool proof plan to remedy my underage-misfortune.
“Here it is!” my brother exclaimed, handing a little blue booklet to me. It read, “INTERNATIONAL PASSPORT, ISSUED BY THE UNITED STATED OF AMERICA.” He pushed open the first page, revealing a picture of a chubby, dirty blonde, blue-eyed, glasses wearing, 5’9” boy who could pass for no older than 15.
“You call this … this … thing my ticket to a drunken weekend?” I questioned him, my eyes slowly receding backward, readying themselves for a roll worthy moment that was inevitably about to occur. I was none of those characteristics: at 6’2”, I sit at an average build that I would hope isn’t even close to the chubby faced boy in the picture. My eyes are green, I have dark brown hair, and I traded in my glasses for contacts before I left the 8th grade. Somehow having a passport of some chunky cheeked lad didn’t feel like I was any closer to my chance of achieving liquid grandeur that weekend.
“Oh stop getting your panties in a twist,” he argued back at me. “No one cares about the picture! Take a look at his birth year …” I swept the booklet out of his hands, examining the text below the boy’s photograph:
May 29, 1987
“Stop fretting, just trust me. It’ll work,” he smiled back at me. Looking down at the tiny image of the flabby preteen, I could feel him mocking me through his half-grin and smudged spectacles. This should have been my first clue that the next few hours would bring much more than just novelty. After all, I had probably placed too much faith in a 2” x 2” photo of a boy I would never meet, whose birthdate was my only claim to legality. I prayed to God Lady Gaga that luck would take pity on me.
That night, channeling our inner Kurt Hummel, my crew stepped out in full fashion. Erin in particular took her style choices to new extremes, claiming that PRIDE was the only acceptable time to wear over-sized plastic jewelry and fake diamond studs. Somewhere along the line I missed the memo that gay also translated into: “one’s freedom and capacity to wear a multitude of tacky shit without the fear of being judged.” I sensed my sister had misplaced her Webster’s Dictionary years ago.
I, on the other hand, was not feeling quite as fabulous. In a last ditch effort to look more like my newfound fat-boy persona, I had not limited myself in salty indulgences at dinner. In fact, it wasn’t until I was certain that every cell in my body was expanding in a sodium bloat, that I took the top off the saltshaker, desperately pouring white crystals onto my bowl of pasta, my salad, my breadstick, my chocolate ice cream, my tongue... Although my outside appearance changed in circumference with the sodium massacre, I felt no more secure in my ability to pass for a 15-year-old boy who looked somewhat like a cross between Donald Trump and a less masculine Rosie O’Donnell. I could already hear the bouncer’s denial of the passport ringing in my ears: “You’re fired.”
As we walked through the rainbow-laden streets of San Francisco, clues emerged suggesting that we were nearing the Queer District. Much to the disapproval of my eyes, such indications manifested in the form of half naked individuals flaunty their voluptuous bodies. Skinny underage twinks flamboyantly strolled around in tight, multicolored underwear. And women, young and old alike, removed their bras, exposing their breasts to the world as if doing so was completely within the acceptable limits of society.
After an overdrawn, yet somewhat convincing conversation with the bouncer about my miraculous “weight loss” and “physical revolution,” I was granted entrance into my very first bar. The bouncer told me I should try to find a better fake next time I went out, but wished me a “Happy PRIDE” and asked me to “not misbehave too much.” I gave him a curt smile, hastily walking in with my crew before he thought more thoroughly about his decision. For some reason I expected the inside of the bar to be astounding, as if hidden behind the black double doors would be some exclusive room adorned no different than the sleeping chambers of Aphrodite. Yet, unceremoniously the bar was adorned in no more than black walls and various posters of half naked men carrying Coors Light and Smirnoff Ice. Let down by the lack of climax in the evening, we retreated to a corner of the bar, staking claims on prime people-watching-territory.
Perhaps there was a meeting we should have attended laying out the rules of PRIDE, or maybe we missed an important informational brochure about the “ins-and-outs of the weekend,” but we certainly were not expecting the events of the following 10 minutes. Minding my own business, I began people watching.
“Boobs … boobs … more boobs,” I thought to myself. The whole scene was less surprising with every passing nipple. While pondering the group of woman to my left discussing the differences between a “Sex on the Beach” and a “Blow Job,” I hardly noticed the two boys pushing each other up against the wall to my right. I gave them a half glance; they were merely swapping spit, a sight predictable amongst the other various events that had occurred that day. My crew and I commenced conversation, contemplating which bar we’d try to sneak me into next. It was not until I heard the moaning that I realized what was really occurring next to me. Next to the right to bare all, and the freedom to wear tasteless clothing and jewelry in public, I did not realize that public sexual contact had also made the PRIDE Bill of Rights.
“Hey Erin,” I said in lackluster tone, trying to conceal my giggling. She was standing next to lustful boys, her back turned to the acts of crudity taking place a mere inch or two away. “You should probably take a looksy at what is happening behind you…” I couldn’t hold it in any longer, tears streaming down my cheeks, laughter unbounded. Glancing backward, it was within a millisecond she turned back to face us, her face stark white, mouth agape.
“Wha..what are they … um … doing?” her face a cross between confused and intrigued. No sooner has she uttered those words than she was answered by a loud, “Ahh Ahh AhhhhhHHHHHHAAHHH!” Without missing a beat, we all turned around as if witnessing a murder scene. The boys, apparently unphased by the audience, zipped up their pants and pranced off to the bar to find an “after-sex drink.” Everyone began to laugh uncontrollably, shocked by the lewd behavior that had ensued next to our not-so-innocent-anymore corner. However, Erin was not pleased. She was frantically checking her dress, obviously concerned that something had happened.
“What are you doing, sis?” my brother said, fighting back laughter.
“I’m inspecting my clothes for accidentaldebris,” she said so matter-of-factly, as if it was something she did on a normal basis. “This whole PRIDE thing has really made me much more aware of my surroundings. I think I’ll bring wet wipes with me from now on, just in case there are in more hand job incidents on this trip….”