Queer, Yet Boring

Here's an essay I wrote a few years ago. It was published in a couple of publications at Maryville College, namely, a queer zine called Outrage, and the campus literary magazine, Impressions. But that is irrelevant . . .

Queer, Yet Boring

I’m bored with being gay. You’d think that as a result of being “queer” my life would be interesting, different, perhaps even unique. This is not so.
I have sex with other men. Occasionally, I fall in love with one of them and have a relationship. Wow. Has your jaw reached the floor yet? Or are you suppressing a yawn? How many of you have sex, fall in love, or have romantic relationships? Do you find these activities fulfilling by themselves? I don’t. I know those gals on Sex in the City are preoccupied with sex, relationships, and men (not to mention clothes), but is this really what we hip young Americans with disposable income should strive for?
Personally, I like music. I’ve decided that music is better than sex. It last longer, it’s easier to obtain, and you can do it while driving. Also, you can make a living off it and not be ashamed to tell your parents. “But wait!” you say, “What about companionship, intimacy, and all those other innate desires that send us to Hallmark stores monthly?” Don’t worry, you can get those through music, too. Ninety-five percent of the friendships that I have made throughout my life have been more the result of similarities in musical taste than similarities in sexuality or even sex itself.
I’m not saying that I don’t admire those who have successful, intimate relationships. I, too, love the warm gooey feeling that love provides. It’s just that I don’t think I’m “queer” because I’m gay. I own over sixty Tori Amos cds; that’s queer. I like pineapple and onions on my pizza; that’s sort of queer. I don’t watch much television; that’s really queer.
The Christian Right, which is neither, thinks that my existence is a threat to their exquisitely artificial construction: (Nuclear) “Family Values.” But, if you think about it, much of my life is spent helping them. I don’t plan on breeding, so their kids can have a better opportunity for that cushy job they so deserve. Or, even better, my nonexistent kid won’t keep theirs from making the baseball team or the cheerleading squad. I guarantee at least one less mouth to feed, one less possible “welfare leech,” and one less opportunity for heathen women to triumph over Christian men by exercising their right to have an abortion. Unless I donate sperm to a lesbian…
Maybe there’s something wrong with me. People tell me I should have more gay friends. Maybe I should make my sexuality the main mark of my identity. I’m sure more people would remember me if I introduced myself as “Sir Scott the Gay” or if I wore silk shirts, had a poodle, and lisped heavily. Maybe I should make destroying the moral fabric of American society the main goal of my life. That might be fun. I think that I was wrong; being gay can be outrageous, maybe even queer.
Sadly though, that kind of life is not for me. I’m too conservative for that, too timid and shy. I’ll just have to stick to sleeping with men.