Pride is always a time of reflection for me.  I spend a lot of time in front of the mirror anyway, but even more during Pride Week.  Are my teeth white enough?  what color contacts should I wear to the seniors' T Dance?  Did those honey highlights take?  Damn, that tan from a can's looking fierce!  Panty lines?  What panty lines? 

But I also take time to think deep gay thoughts.  About things like "gay culture" — can you say "redundant"? — and "identity" and "community".  What they are, or are supposed to be but aren't, or are but aren't supposed to be.  Those sorts of things.  Things I don't think a lot about during other weeks.  

Not during the Merrie Monarch Festival, a week-long celebration of ancient and modern hula, which takes place each year in the week following Easter in Hila, Hawaii. Or during Pat Freestone’s Week-Long Celebration of Alcohol-Related Haiku Poetry in March. Or Orange County's Irrelevant Week, a celebration of the final pick of the NFL draft.

Being gay and single (I mean, not just horny and looking, but actually single), occasionally you have to confront what passes for gay culture these days, which runs the gamut from quoting Cher to country line-dancing.  A few weeks ago, when I had finished with my annual dating blitz, I was perusing the GLBT listings to see if there was a somewhat more natural way to meet people than through internet hook-up sites, and a somewhat less natural way than in the bushes.  

I wanted to stay away from anything "support groupy."  The only kind of support I want is financial, and that's the only kind support groups never seem to offer.  I also didn't want to totally queer out.  I know it's true that everyone is gay, but not everything everyone does has to be.  I have lots of gay friends to get my gay on with, but I'm looking for someone to get my real on with. 

I just can't get myself to go out and do gay things for the sheer gayness of it anymore.  I don't want to meet Mr. Right at queerioke or gay bowling.  That's just me.  The way I want to meet my man is, I dunno — something like: I'm walking down the street and see a fire, rush in and save several orphans or illegal immigrants, and on my way out with three rescued infants under each arm, there he is, 6'4" 190 pounds of lean muscle, in full fireman regalia.  He grabs the babies, tosses them aside (they bounce), takes me in his arms as I collapse from the exhaustion of singlehandedly evacuating a city block of orphanages, and gives me the hottest mouth-to-mouth I've ever had.

But what are the odds of that happening twice in a lifetime? 

I'd settle for someone dropping from the sky on top of me, too.  Or — this happened to me early this morning on my way to the garden before work, when I was totally unprepared for it: I was riding down Mass Ave., had just crossed Boylston — right over by Berklee College of Music, where there's always a lot going on — and I look over and there's the most adorable, scruffy little guy smiling right at me.  I was like, hmm, that's odd.  You know, people don't just smile at other people for no reason around here.  Our eyes locked and he kept smiling, and I smiled back as I pedaled on.  Missed Connections, here I come!

I have been getting some looks lately.  Now that it's biceps-baring weather I notice stray glances now and then.  It's not like I have huge ones, it's that big poppin' vein running all up and down 'em that I'm convinced gets the doubletakes...


I think it's funny.  I mean, it's a vein.  I'll take it, but what is it about vascularity?  I guess now that Madonna's got 'em, everybody wants 'em.  But, hey, since I've got 'em: any hot phlebotomists out there looking to hook?

I have an additional reason to reflect on gayness this year.  My mother is coming to visit in a couple of weeks.  She has never traveled more than the roughly twenty paces from the kitchen to my old bedroom to visit me, so it's pretty momentous.  My aunt is tagging along, too.  And my ex has mysteriously invited us all out to dinner.  Now, those of you who know me even a little, know, as my ex does all too well, that I cannot refuse a free meal.  He's checkmated me again, the bastard!   

The problem is, and you're not gonna believe this, but: I have never officially come out to my mom.  I mean, by the time I came out, it was a little late for the balloons and streamers, anyway. By now, it's so far beyond "I know she knows, and she knows I know she knows," that it seems ridiculous to even bring it up.  This is not just an elephant in the room, it's the whole three-ring circus.  I mean, all you have to do is Google me.  I have so gay-branded the Mennonno name I almost feel sorry for the rest of my family.  If it weren't all their fault I probably would.

Why did I let it go so long?  It's on my to-do list.  It just kept getting put off.  It's, like, number twenty-seven on today's list, in fact.  After "Win lottery," "Astronaut School," and "Brazilian bikini wax."  I'm just not gonna get to it again, today —

But I am.  In fact, I just sent her an email with "it's all your fault" in the subject line.  No, actually, it read: "just so we're all on the same page."  I mean, I'm an open book, but some people are slow readers.  I told her to at least act surprised, even though this particular book is less mystery than melodrama.  And please: don't forget the balloons and streamers.  Your PFLAG tee is on order.  Can't wait to see you.  We've got a lot of queering up to do.