August 3, 2005

What's the Matter With Kids Today?

So, um, hi guys. This totally isn't me, so don't like, uh, shoot the messenger or whatever, but my friend over there, his name's like Pete or Peter or something, totally thinks you're cute. He's the blonde one over there, looking all embarassed. Ohmygod, you guys aren't like, boyfriends or something, right?

He did call, put your voodoo dolls away, though later than he said he would. We decided to grab a late bite to eat. Unfortunately, there was a convention of underage homos at the late-diner we decided upon.

Yes, a convention. There was a big GLBT youth meeting thing downtown yesterday afternoon, and about twenty high school gay boys huddled over a table on the other side of the restaurant, staring at us, giggling, and talking hushedly amoung themselves.

They were dressed like a new sort of gay army: almost all of them had frosted hair, multiple bracelets and rings, tight 'vintage-inspired' tshirts with kitchy slogans, rainbow belts, tight jeans (some screenprinted). They were probably wearing faggy shoes too, but I didn't notice. They smiled with all of their teeth showing, and I'm pretty sure I saw some glitter on one of them.

Our conversation was pretty awkward, more awkward than I thought, so the distraction was nice. We acted cool about it, he took getting hit on by a 17 year old in stride. (Apparently, in New York they have a thing for Midwestern guys, and he got hit on a lot by random strangers last month when he stayed there.) I've never really been hit on, and they tried including me in the conversation but they weren't interested.

Being polite and amused beyond all belief, we invited the poor guy over to our table, and had some conversation, finding out that they were all jailbait and other pleasantries. The whole time, my guy and I snuck clandestine smiles at each other, in awe of what was going on.

Eventually, we eased them off our table (their curfew was 11), though not before the guy with the crush grabbed my guys cell phone and gave him his number. After they left, our conversation picked up, talking about what it was like for us old fogies in high school.

I mean, I have torn feelings. I mean, I don't like gay people and probably wouldn't have dressed in tight clothing and pranced about like a gaggle of fairies (which, in all fairness, these guys were). These guys were GAY: capital G, capital A, capital Y.

Three years ago, back when I was a senior, that sort of thing never would have happened. I was out, sure, but only as bi, and then only in theory: I was open-minded enough to consider dating a guy, but I'd never gone through with it. These 16 and 17 year olds were making allusions to how many guys they'd been with. (A number much, much, much higher than my own.)

It would have been nice to have had more gay friends in high school. Hell, it would have been nice to have gay people in high school. Unfortunately, they had sort of a borg mentality. Everyone was sort of the same. They all sort of talked the same, dressed the same, and had a lot of the same mannerisms. It was like an army of twinks. It would have been a pedophile's wet dream if they weren't so, well, mincing.

There's something to be said about being different and gay, you know? You're different from everyone else, and no one knows? It can be scary and isolating, but it can be creative and secretive and thrilling, too.

I don't want to see being gay turn into another clique in a bad teen comedy: the jocks, the cheerleaders, the mathletes, the stoners, and the homos. I want there to be homos with the jocks, the cheerleaders, the mathletes, the science club, et all. I'm sure they enjoy the comraderie, but there's something to be said about diversifying, too.

I have absolutely no idea what would have happened if a friend of mine in high school walked up to a guy in a restaurant and told him that I thought he was cute. That just never would have happened.

Ohmygod, you guys aren't like, boyfriends or something, right?

His response: Oh no, nothing like that.
My response: Not really.

Fucking A, man. No goodnight kiss, but no goodnight handshake either. Just an 'oh, my car's over there, give me a call sometime this week and we can catch a movie or something.' He's going out of town this weekend, so there goes my birthday 'nondate.'

Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.