If there is one thing I’ve learnt in my year of being an openly gay figure in the media, it is this:
When you are an openly gay figure in the media, people ask you to do gay things at gay events because you are gay.
Sometimes, that is a lovely thing. Other times, it is painful and awkward.
We gays love an event. We love a march, a parade, a fundraiser, a concert, a comedy night, a sporting event, a musical production, an auction – pretty much name anything that involves alcohol and the potential for a really long running time and we’re interested.
Oh, and a drag queen has to host. That is vital; I mean, who else will provide bad sexual innuendo? A man in a suit, for God’s sake?!
For some reason, this time of year seems to be peak time for gay events. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was in the months of February and March that our gay forefathers landed in Australia after their long voyage from Gay Island, or perhaps this is the season when more shirtlifters are born than any other time of the year. I don’t know; all I know is recently, my diary has been jam-packed with queer shit.
I can vividly remember the first major gay event I attended. It was the 2008 Midsumma Pride March in St Kilda, and I awkwardly shuffled along to it not long after I’d moved to Melbourne. It was, quite simply, awesome. Never before had I seen so many gutsy homosexuals gathered in the one place. Very few of them possessed bodies that were worth showing off, but that didn’t stop ‘em puttin’ ‘em on display. There were gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transsexuals, transgendered people, bears, leather daddies, gay parents and parents of gays and lesbians, gay police officers, people with HIV and their supporters, young people, old people, black people, white people, camp people, straight-acting people – all sorts of shapes and colours in different materials, coming together to say, “We’re fine, thank you very much”. As a young gay guy trying to figure out exactly how one was to live a sequined lifestyle, it was mighty empowering for me.
My favourite group marching that year was without a doubt a group called ‘Spaced Out’. They were something of a bookish crew, complete with glasses, plaid clothes and giddy grins. Their slogan was “You’re not alone”. Their cause? These guys made up a gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender and intersex science fiction fan club. Gay nerds, essentially: they were a bully’s wet dream. But they didn’t give a crap. They just kept on marching, placards and puffers in hand, proud as punch of their queerness and of their fondness for Battlestar Galactica.
The past couple of weeks have seen me perform at over 10 gay comedy nights and judge at both the 2010 Sydney Mardi Gras and the 2010 Brisbane Big Gay Day’s Mr Q Search For A Cover Boy competition.
These are tough jobs, but some fagatron has to do it.
Mardi Gras was somehow exhilarating, terrifying and boring at the same time. I felt extremely honoured to have been asked to judge the prestigious event alongside basketball legend Lauren Jackson, although, it has to be said, it was considerably more full on that I had expected. I mean, I love judging gay people – who doesn’t? I’m just not used to judging whole groups of them in quick succession against a number of different criteria (ranging from “Best Dance” to “Best Political Comment” to “Most Fabuloussinginess”) whilst drinking free alcohol and getting distracted by the beautiful people surrounding me who were dancing vigorously to Black Eyed Peas.
After the terrifying opening spectacle that is Dykes on Bikes, the parade started in earnest. Community group after community group danced, drove and rolled up Oxford Street, past the rainbow-tinged Taylor Square and onwards towards Moore Park for the afterparty. Embracing the theme of ‘Mardi Gras History of the World’, the GLBT community brought out Egyptian head-dresses, angel wings, sharp suits and about 20 cows’ worth of leather.
I was gobsmacked.
The specificity of some the groups was also remarkable. One entrant was the Gay Deaf Association. DEAF PEOPLE WHO ARE GAY. Do you see where I’m coming from? I generally try to make a concerted effort to avoid constructing my Saturday nights around the written judgement of the ability of deaf gays to keep in time to a beat. But hey, that’s just me. If that’s your bag – go nuts. Just leave me out of it, you sick freak.
The night took an even more bizarre twist when my boyfriend and I were joined in the judging area by one Brent Corrigan, international gay porn star/actor/model. He is beautiful and amazing and pretty and lovely and one day we shall be wed, but it was very difficult to strike up a casual conversation with him. When you’ve seen someone’s body of work (which really, really involves their body) and, er... appreciated it a lot, polite chit-chat just doesn’t seem to come.
I mean flow.
I mean...oh shit, now I feel like a drag queen.
Basically, whenever Brent asked me a question, all I could think about was his lovely sideburns and his mad az skills in the boudoir.
On the whole, though, Mardi Gras was a hoot. While it was long, it was also fascinating and inspiring AND it involved free food, Ricki Lee and Mark Trevorrow as Bob Downe. As we the judges joined the end of the parade and marched the rest of the way, waving at the cheering fans either side of us who had come out for the festivities, I felt not only not ashamed to be gay, but almost...well, kind of cool.
Judging the Mr Q Search For A Cover Boy was less of a revelatory experience. I know it sounds awesome (if you are a gay man or a straight lady), but it really wasn’t. 10 perfectly nice young men came out onto a stage dressed in towels and underwear. They flexed a little bit, answered a silly question relating to a year between 2000 and 2009 and then I, alongside two other adult men, had to raise up laminated score cards to indicate what we gave each potential Mr. Q – all of them living human beings with self-respect and dignity – out of 10. And they could see that score. They’re standing on stage and can quite clearly see exactly what I think of them and their abs and their body hair and their packages.
On a scale from 1 to 10.
They then had to do a horribly choreographed and reluctantly-performed dance number in an effort to sway us with their sexiness. And then we had to score them again. We were treating these guys like dogs.
Sexy, buff dogs.
The eventual winner of the title of Mr Q for 2010 was a lovely chap called Dwayne. He had blonde hair (tick), a nice back (great) and just kind of didn’t seem like an absolute dick (perfect). I gave him an 8, and then, after seeing his dance, I changed it to a 9.
Don’t judge me. Homophobe.
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