As your least favorite brand has likely reminded you in an emoji-filled mailer that you just can’t seem to unsubscribe from, it’s Pride month again. And so begins the annual wheel of discourse: Should Pride be a party or a protest? Has it been co-opted by big brands? Is the rainbow actually ugly? Should the police be banned from marching at Pride? Yes, yes, yes, yes.
But ladies, I’m tired of the wheel. It’s been a hard 30 years for me as a non-binary homosexual on this cis, straight planet. And so for this year’s Pride, as a treat to myself, I’ve decided I’m taking some time off. I’m done with waiting at the doors of big companies who are desperately trying not to get canceled, and asking for inclusion with big puppy dog eyes. I’m tired of writing explainers on how to be a good ally to a trans person. (For that, read Shon Faye.) And no, I don’t want a credit card with two men kissing on it. I don’t need a drink that is pink! Why is this sidewalk painted rainbow?!
Yes, I’ve decided for this Pride month I’m finally going to be really honest—really, really honest—about what we LGBTQs get up to all year round when our image isn’t being co-opted by a smoothie company. Because when you aren’t looking, we gays are plotting and planning the Gay Agenda. The Gay Agenda which, to terrify all of my loyal conservative fans, always has been and always will be about making as many people gay as possible. Queer as possible. Trans as possible. And so this Pride month, as your agony aunt here at Vogue, I am here to deliver to you the LGBTQ+ message: I’m here to tell you that it’s time to go gay.
Everyone’s doing it. Chrishell from Selling Sunset did it; your ex-best friend’s mum from high school did it; loads of celebs who can’t be named did it; hey, you probably already did it in college. And while I’m aware it’s not a choice, let me tell you, if it was, I’d choose it! It’s way more fun, and way more flirty, than straight life.
Here in LGBTQ+ Town, we get to party until we’re in our mid-sixties, at which point we’re held up as community icons. We get to wear leather without looking try-hard, we get to watch unhinged drag queens fall over in dive bars, and we get to holiday in homes in Tangier owned by “interior decoration gays.” We’re statistically more likely to be chic and fashionable (although some gay men seem to want to actively exclude themselves from this one) and people—literally, like, everyone—are desperate for our approval. We have more sex than our straight counterparts, we are better at everything than our heterosexual peers (there are no stats on this, but it’s true), and we get to say things like “J’adore” and mean it both ironically and unironically.
We have the best literature, from Giovanni’s Room to Detransition, Baby. The best film and theater, from Pink Flamingos to A Strange Loop. The best fashion, from Thierry Mugler to Telfar. The best art too, from the Sistine Chapel to Leigh Bowery. What do the straights have? Chinos and golf tournaments? Marriage and a Volvo? Yep, you got it—being gay is better. It’s chicer. It’s hotter. So what are you waiting for?
A note on how you’re likely to be viewed after doing so. The people around you are no longer strangers, commuters, or fellow diners at Chinese Tuxedo. No. As part of the LGBTQ+ community, you will be forced into visibility. Sometimes you’ll like it, sometimes you’ll hate it. A healthy way to deal with this, though—which my therapist has strongly advised against—is to start calling those around you your “audience.” “Fans” also works, but the truth is that audience implies a much more generous, symbiotic, artistic relationship between you and this woman who is staring at you at the crosswalk.
It’s also time to get really good at sex. Alas, I don’t make the rules. But if there is one thing that unites every LGBTQ+ person I know, it’s that we are good at sex. You don’t have to be kinky—although you can also be as kinky as they come—but we are frankly superior in bed. After all, why go through all of the boring drama of coming out and detailing exactly how you’re going to have sex to your own mother if you’re not going to actually be good at it? It’s time to transcend the dynamic of the jackrabbit and the wet flannel. You are a sex phoenix, and you’re rising from the ashes.
