THE HOMEOWNER

Thursday, April 17, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

The Homeowner: All you can eat

By Mike Prevatt

I turned 27 last weekend. I'm not one to fuss over getting older, despite the gay male community's general classification of anyone old enough to attend graduate school as a dinosaur, so I'll welcome any excuse for revelry and attention.

As part of the celebration, about 10 or so of us met at Hamburger Mary's on the actual night of my birthday, and I had two other friends who couldn't make it to Mary's separately meet with me earlier in the week. One of those friends represents, to my knowledge, my sole lesbian acquaintance.

She met me at a popular Brazilian restaurant in an upscale, hip and gay-friendly part of town. While she combed the area for a parking spot, I took the time to look at the people around me, who were either already wolfing down plantains and hybrid pizzas, or waiting to be seated (by a fine-ass host whose plantain I'd like to wolf down). It looked like the typical gay/gay-friendly crowd, but the one thing that stuck out most was how many lesbians were out. They nearly outnumbered the "bois."

I shared this revelation with my friend once we were seated (by the fine-ass host whose plantain, sadly, never made it to my plate). She gave me this knowing laugh and said something about "lesbian time" and "lesbian curfew," and how most dykes make it back home before the boys have ordered their first apple martini.

Sure enough, once dinner was over and I drove out of the area, I noticed there were scant females among the testosterone-heavy throng--just like there were very few African Americans, straight couples or homos not physically meeting Abercrombie & Fitch-model standards.

Perhaps they all know better. Or, maybe they just don't feel welcome among the post-Stonewall Prada parade. In every city I've visited big enough to boast a gay-friendly area, there always seem to be an overwhelming amount of moisturizer-shiny young white males dominating that community. In conducting my informal census, I've realized that the only group that comes close to competing with Aryan Twink Nation is the same group primarily worshipping them--older white men.

Being a 27-year-old, image-conscious white male who benefits from naturally blending in, my perspective is conflicted to say the least. And I, like anyone else, have my own preferences, and make stereotypical observances, for better or worse. However, as I stand back and assume the wallflower role, I notice how uncosmopolitan the gay scene seems to be, from bar attendance to ads in the queer rags. It's ironic, despite how loud we homeowners cry out for social acceptance.

Now, I'm not one for socializing on a quota system, because that's disingenuous. And I realize every major city has sections that cater to certain ethnicities, religions and such, providing a degree of sanctuary from still-rampant discrimination (or, sadly, excusing their own racist tendencies). But this subconscious segregation, especially in the one part of town that claims to welcome everyone and anyone, is unfortunate. There's something to be said about culture, and it exists beyond "Queer as Folk."

A struggle of any fringe or minority group is uniting with a greater society while preserving an identity that distinguishes itself from everyone else. But, it seems you can't have your cake and eat it too, unless you play by the rules usually set by those we inherently grant power to. Sure, some non-white or female gays have no problem assimilating while maintaining their natural essence, and others might prefer a more familiar crowd. But in most gay locales, I notice those types are not exactly welcome unless they follow the code. Like, I rarely see gay black men dressed in the hip-hop-style garb their straight black peers have popularized, and I've heard more than a few white men quietly scoff at any who do. "That is so ghetto," they might hushedly offer.

No shit, pal. This is the ghetto. We wanted a part of the urban landscape where we might feel easier expressing who we are, where we might safely play the mating game without getting our asses kicked, and we sought to establish it with all-inclusive, cultural intentions. But, somewhere down the line, we became the bouncers ensuring everyone trying to crash our little party is orderly queued, dressed acceptably, financially blessed and willing to play by our rules. The young and beautiful get a line pass.

The lesbian thing probably confounds me the most. Just because we're not having sex with each other doesn't mean we need to divide ourselves a la 1960s Berlin. Furthermore, the word "gay" has evolved to mean "male," despite lesbians present in our community's grocery stores, medical offices, eateries and, at least before 10 p.m., nightspots. Once I asked a pal if he wanted to meet at a bar known to be more lesbian-friendly. He muttered something about not being into fish.

Well, if I may tweak the adolescent metaphor a bit, I am. I want clams and sushi on my plate, as well as chicken and sausage, white meat and dark meat, plantains and cherry pie, etc. Which is to say the gay community should look more like the Carnival Buffet and less like a hot dog stand.

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