I still remember the first time I felt like my identity meant eternal loneliness.

I was sitting in a coffee shop talking with a guy I’d been seeing casually for a couple months. We’ll call him James.

Because that was his name.

(Fuck you, James.)

This is me making the sexiest face ever.

Note: Thank you so much to Our Queer Stories for excerpting this article!

The air held a certain thick gloom — maybe because of the late afternoon shower, maybe because I knew I was wasting my time on yet another pseudo-intellectual neckbeard Nice Guy type. Either way, the conversation was going nowhere fast.

He was passively bitching about another guy, Nick, he’d been dating (because who could think of a better topic?) and about the scene and how he didn’t want to be involved in the scene and how gay men are so catty and how he’s just trying to evolve intellectually but he’s just surrounded by all these guys who are into the scene.

At the time, I had just gotten a job working security at my favorite bar by virtue that I spent so much time there they had to hire me. When I wasn’t working security, I was filming drag shows, snapping headshots for performers, or tearing up the dance floor with my friends on both weekends and karaoke night.

Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Am I still smiling? Please sh…

Naturally, I nodded and said, “I know, right?”

James continued to rattle off something about all these slutty guys who just want to hook up but don’t want anything serious (Note that James had tried to get me into bed with him the first time we hung out and had continued to pressure me since, despite this being our first time seeing each other beyond the walls of his house).

I was trying to find a polite, graceful exit for the conversation when he dropped the F bomb.

“The only guy who seems to be serious right now is Nick,” James lamented.

“Sounds like you should get together with Nick, then,” I suggested, as I grabbed my phone and my jacket.

“Well, but,” James continued. “Nick is too fem for me.”

Oh. This should be fun.

“Please elaborate,” I suggested. I tried not to arch my eyebrow.

“Well,” James started. “You know what I mean. Like I want a man, not a girl.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Like just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you have to be a cliche,” he continued. “You don’t have to like shopping and clubbing and drinking and like sleep around and stuff.”

“And Nick does all of those things?” I asked.

“Well, I mean, he works retail,” James said. The way he emphasized that last word was both defensive toward me and dismissive toward Nick. “He works at H&M.”

“So he’s fashionable,” I echoed.

“Exactly,” James said. He stared at me, waiting for me to validate his response.

I stared back. He was going to keep waiting.

“And I mean he always wants to go clubbing when I ask him to hang out,” James continued.

“What would you prefer to do?” I asked.

“Not that,” James answered. “I’m trying to get away from the sc-”

“But like, what are you actual interests, James?” I interrupted.

It took James a while to answer. Eventually, he listed off some vague first-date go-tos — hiking, going out to eat, all that nice stuff.

“Have you tried suggesting any of those?” I asked.

Of course he hadn’t.

Because James wasn’t frustrated by Nick’s choice in activities. He didn’t actually bother to get to know Nick well enough to know what his hobbies were. He didn’t try to hang out with Nick to no avail because they didn’t have any common interests. He didn’t want to put in that kind of effort because he’d already written Nick off as yet another cliche gay.

We cut our conversation short after that.

“I’m not a fucking cliche,” says the most cliche and group of gay men in existence. “I don’t like fashion.”

The sad narrative of the masc gay guy

I just want to find a man who acts like a man.

It’s just so tragic, right?

You just want somebody who’s so unique and original, who really breaks the mold of the stereotypical gay man and acts like a man is supposed to act.

But you just can’t find somebody who shrugs off all those stereotypes and engages in those rare hobbies like sportsball and HVAC repair and the gym.

Here’s the thing: if you fit some weird version of masculinity, great. Please continue to be who you are. Follow your arrow.

If you want to spend a Sunday afternoon watching football and eating nachos and farting, be my guest. I’ll provide the damn cheese dip.

But those are still cliches. They’re just cliche of straight men instead of gay ones.

But this shaming bullshit needs to end.

Here’s a list of things that are totally and completely acceptable for anybody and everybody to like:

Fashion Beer Clubbing Cars Shopping Football Art Fishing Pedicures** Hunting Staying in your lane

** Please don’t touch my feet.

They’re all equally fun! Just not for all of us.

And Nick, if you’re out there, text me. You sound like a solid guy.

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