Fey Ways

by Dominic Hamilton-Little

After a moving and magnificent afternoon of ecstasy watching the New York City Ballet, I go off via train, taxi, and boat to Fire Island, with a friend who has a house in the Pines. It is my first visit to this well-known glade - and I am filled with all the excitement of a hajji on his way to Mecca. The boat docks in the middle of high-tea - which is what they call too many cocktails at dusk on the balcony of the Pavilion - and the pages of a J. Crew catalogue beam down at the new arrivals.

It certainly is lovely - what with the endless beach; the sweet scent of pine; the nearly tame deer cavorting near boys cavorting; and of course the Architectural Digest Homes Beautiful all so perilously perched on this sand-bar - but the general atmosphere reminds one of nothing less than a middle-class country club full of old fogies. It costs most a fortune to get here and stay (which keeps out the unwanted), everyone is a nipple pony clone regardless of race (it's the same scrubbed, pumped, shaved glisten on all), and the food is bland and mediocre (even at the 'finest' dining establishment).

Naturally I am sporting sarongs and mules, as these are what I am most comfortable in during the heat of high summer. Someone turns to me at tea, and says: "You know, cross-dressing just isn't done here." EXCUSE ME? I try to rein in vicious thoughts, and exhale blue smoke. "I would hardly call a sarong, 'cross-dressing,' and frankly, I think it's more than a little sad that at a gay resort I am being told what to wear." With this less than inspired, though candid, response, I turn and walk away. But the pathetic nature of this clone so terrified of my sartorial eccentricity, stays with me long after I have left the Pines, and even into my celebrations on Gay Pride Sunday two weeks later.

As I enjoy a mini-personal parade before the actual one reaches us at Christopher and Bleeker, I marvel at the joy and pride, but am also saddened by how insipid this supposedly diverse rainbow tapestry we like to call the gay community has become. So keen for a place at the table, we have eschewed all individuality for a bill of soiled patriarchal paraphernalia long ago consigned to the suburbs and hinterlands, even as we congratulate ourselves on our supposed difference. Hypocrisy is so ugly. At least have the guts to admit that the straight, white life is what you are pursuing. How dreadful when our queer brothers and sisters become the kapos of the community, policing correct assimilation policy. In the complacency of this mediocrity we lose the very creative sparks that once produced our greatness.

The Jesse Helmses of the world don't give a rip whether you are sporting Gap casual or a white satin Vera Wang hostess gown - if you are a male who sucks cock, you are automatically persona non grata. Trying to blend in, and erase your individuality, will not win you love and acceptance. Loneliness will not be sublimated or alleviated by adopting this lemming mentality.

Certainly we are not all queens - but neither should we all be gym bunnies affecting construction worker drag.

Until we can embrace the very things that render us magnificent and apart from the straight lemmings, we will continue to loathe ourselves. When one tries to act straight (which is a lie) - the bigots win.

Ask any woman what it costs to constantly assimilate, or at least attempt to accommodate the demands of a male-dominated culture, and you will hear about the fundamental tenets of feminism. It is as exhausting trying to sleep with the enemy, as it is pretending to be one of them when you are the other.

No wonder the culture of superficial beauty and desire has little to offer at the moment beyond drink, drugs, and discussions on bareback (read: deadly) sex. Our youth and vitality has become toxic as we have tried to normalize it and make it seem part of the regular table. Far better to create our own table; set it with the standards and aesthetics of our own invention; and then invite the people we love to join us.

I have no plans to return to the Pines anytime soon - this gym at the beach was not the Mecca I was searching for after all.