Hollywood isn’t original. How manyBatmanreboots and teen romances can you make?
Some might say the same thing about me: trying to makea living off of a show no one even remembers I got cut out of and then performing it in drag for old queens who want to relive the past. How original.
But we were among the first. Long before RuPaul andDrag Race, The Golden Gays were bringing humor and heart back to people who desperately needed to be reminded that they were loved and accepted, and that—despite the world telling them that we weren’t equal, didn’t deserve to have equal rights, couldn’t marry, weren’t accepted by God—we still had more in common than what separated us.
That’s the show I wanted to bring to life.
I wanted to heal souls.
But somewhere along the way, that message got lost.
“Spot me again, Daddy?”
Cole is back, this time with hundred-pound dumbbells.
Gay men have turned themselves into walking stereotypes. I have done nothing to dispel those myths. I’ve turned myself into the exact opposite of what Hollywood hated when I began acting.
As Cole lifts, I suddenly see this same gym as it was in the 1980s, a time when we did not stare at our phones, when we had to look someone in the eye. There was an art to cruising: a look, a smile, a head nod.
We did not immediately ask—or dismiss—someone by asking if they were a bear or otter, twink or top, side, vers, pansexual, asexual, bisexual, androsexual.
We once built a tight community here, inclusive for all, but over time we have turned that into a gayHunger Games, in which we hunt one another and tear each other apart. Our community belittles and ridicules—Too fat! Too fem! Too poor! Too old! Not A-list!—quickly depositing one another into categorical silos in order to make ourselves feel more worthy. But this only isolates us. We no longer meet those who are different from us, those who have battled similar wars. Now we view each other’sdifferences not as a single stripe on a flag that makes us whole but as a scarlet letter.
As Cole does chest presses, he releases an ear-shattering grunt that sounds like an elephant.
I shake my head. There are even more categories for gay men who work out.
Grunting Gays—like me and Cole—are weightlifters and body builders; Cardio Queens monopolize the treadmills, elliptical machines, stair climbers and bikes to stay thin; the Yoga Queens come seeking calm and a lithe body only to emerge from class, get in their cars and cuss you out if you back out before them; Dancing Queens listen to music so loud it blasts from their earbuds, dancing around the gym as if they’re at a circuit party; Quiet Queens go about their routines silently and with a sense of purpose as if they’re cleaning house; the Silver Sneakers are seniors—like Sid—who do chair classes and walk the track, often six wide, blocking the path; the Professional Gays rush into the gym for a forty-five-minute exercise sprint and then disappear like ghosts; and the Selfie and Social Butterfly Queens don’t really work out. They walk around the gym, often shirtless, taking selfie after selfie, giggling, FaceTiming with friends about who they’re dating.
“Thanks, Daddy,” Cole says, finishing his set. “Do you need a... hand?”
He jerks his head toward the gym bathroom and showers.
I hesitate just a moment, hearing Teddy’s voice in my head.
“If you’re really worried about your health, I’d do a spot check down south.”
I look into Cole’s amber eyes, seeking some sort of connection, anything.
I hesitate just long enough for Cole’s phone to buzz, telling him someone else—someone better, hotter, richer, ready now!—is waiting. He begins to tap on his cell and walks away without another glance.
Next.
Just like Hollywood.
I check my watch. I have to finish and get ready for my date with destiny.
Or rather, infamy.
“You’re out of paper towels.”
I am standing at a card table at the end of a long hallway somewhere in the labyrinth of the Palm Springs Conference Center. I am not simply far removed from the Nostalgia Con stars speaking in conference rooms, I am parked directly in front of the men’s and women’s bathrooms.
“I’m not a restroom attendant,” I say. I grab a headshot and hold it next to my face. “I’m Coco fromThe Golden Girls.”
“Who?” the woman asks, giving me a once-over so severe that even God Himself would second guess His choices. “I thought they were all dead. And there wasn’t a man on the show.”
“There was! Me!”
