Mama would say, if you don’t have anything good to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all. Yet, it’s amazing the amount of bitchiness gay men can get away with. A gay man can insult complete strangers' hair, skin, car, house or taste in music and be thanked. I was once at a very posh gay club and this straight girl came up to me and asked me what I thought about her shirt. Just to be funny, I told her she should wear as a hat. She immediately took it off and wrapped it around her head. She looked ridiculous but I told her she looked fabulous. I next gave her advice on shoes and lipstick. I was drunk and had no idea what I was talking about. But as long as I was a bitch about it, she thought I was fabulous.
I feel as if I have a problem with being misunderstood. I was out with friends at the local bar when I met this young adorable guy. I had seen him several times before and thought I finally speak. He was a sweetheart, new to the city and just looking for friends. We started talking and we were getting along. The drinks kept coming and my friends were getting bitchier by the cocktail. They liked insulting people. I had one friend when we walked down the street he had a catty comment for anyone who didn’t get his dark hard. I hated to know what he thought about me when I wasn’t around. I never considered myself one of those bitchy queens but after a couple of cocktails, I had my slips of the tongue. I was talking to my new friend and I noticed that he was kind of a lush. He had like five drinks in a thirty minute period. I wasn’t so convinced of his innocence anymore. Accidentally, I made the snide comment, “Awww, that’s adorable, a teddy bear who likes the liquor. You should be on all the toy store shelves” I thought it was harmless. My new friend immediately became upset. He thought I was calling him fat. It was true he needed to lose about fifteen or twenty pounds but that’s not what I meant. I was being bitchy without knowing I was being bitchy. I profusely apologized, assured him I meant no hard but he wasn’t convinced. He removed himself to the other side of the bar. My friends asked me what I did, and I told them, they laughed and started calling him “Lush the alcoholic teddy bear.” They even made up a song. I felt bad. I really didn’t mean any harm. I wasn’t that type of person. Or was I?
Every year Mr. Blackwell has a list of his top worse dressed celebrities. Who the hell is Mr. Blackwell and why should anyone care? I’ve gone to the Perez Hilton website and most of the times I’m disgusted with his immaturity but also entertained. He’s an overweight bleach blonde parasite who’s made a living at just being bitchy. I mean the things people can say about him. I’ve watched Kojo give his fashion critics and thought to myself, has he ever looked in a mirror. Even Miss Jay on America’s Next Top model always have something bitchy to say and just look like a run over dog mess.
I question if any of them are happy. I question if they have feelings. I question their sanity. I question what makes them an expert besides being gay and never having anything nice to say.
All the older gay men I knew when I first came out were what I called “bitchy gay men.” They were usually unattractive, drunks, fat, clinging to youth in trade boys and prostitutes, bitter and exploitive. I vowed I wouldn’t grow up and be nothing like them. I told myself I would never pay for sex. I got picked on growing up. I never had the right cloths. I guess I’m very sensitive to other people’s feelings. I didn’t see myself as better.
I fell in love with a bitchy gay man. It was like trying to make love to a cactus. His thorns were always razor sharp, his exterior impenetrable and his words unforgivable. His name was Charles. He was the worse. He complained about everything and gossiped about everyone behind their back. I never once saw him happy unless he was on his knees, but that wasn’t happiness, it was lustful greed. I met him at a writer’s seminar. I thought he was accomplished having won several writing awards and published various books. A friend introduced us. I told him I wanted to be a writer. He smiled and invited me to dinner. Charles was almost fifty years old and I was only nineteen, a sophomore in college. In the beginning he seemed nice. He was witty, cultured and very well groomed. I thought we could be friends. I thought he could be my mentor. I wanted him to critic my writing. I figured I could use him to become a better writer. So I flirted. I don’t know why. I wasn’t attracted to him. I did like his power. I wanted what he had. I wanted to somehow steal it. I wasn’t a fool. He kept telling me how beautiful a boy I was all night. He constantly touched my hand. I was still in college. I had no family. I was alone. I wanted to be successful. Charles looked like he could teach me.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out he wasn’t happy. I naively thought because he was successful, had money, a nice car and apartment, an office with a secretary that he found the secret to a good life. I was sure he was happy. It didn’t take long for me to figure he was lonely. It was an incurable loneliness. He often paid for prostitutes. I was just another concubine. I thought I could be his protégé. I was just a fantasy. And it was so tempting if I just played the role, ignored that he wasn’t reading in my writings, that I was just arm candy at all the events. I felt insecure when they snickered in front of my face that I wasn’t pretty as the last one. I wondered if the one after me would be prettier, would he also want to be a writer, would he be more successful at keeping his identity.
Charles didn’t like any of his friends. He talked about all of them behind their backs, called them old and miserable. He hated his reflection. He would scream and once slammed his first into the mirror. He would warm me that the beauty would fade. Every time he weighed himself he’d cry. He got a gym membership at the university but it was only so he could cruise the young eye candy. It was only so he could insult anyone that reminded him of himself.
It didn’t take long before he turned the rage on me. I couldn’t do anything good enough. He didn’t like how I washed the dishes. He didn’t like how I folded the towels. He would call me lazy and trifling. His words were so hurtful. He would say that I was gaining weight. He would complain that I drank too much and it made me look old. I was just a fantasy to him. The world was just a fantasy to him. I used to think when he made bitchy gay comments about other people he was just being funny. I never thought he would say those things about me.
Seeking his approval, I stopped writing. I stopped reading and struggling as an artist. I went to the gym five times a week. I wore eye cream on my eyes at twenty five years old. I worried about getting older. I started hating anyone younger than me. I became so insecure.
Charles had published another book. He sent me a copy and I never opened the package. I went to the book singing as his date. I looked perfection. After the book party driving home Charles asked me what I thought of the party. I drank too much. I hated being in the shadows. I looked in the vanity mirror and reminded myself I was still young unlike him. Charles asked me what I thought of his book. I told him I didn’t open the package but I was sure I hated it. I hated him. He laughed. I looked at him and it was like I was driving with the Devil. I thought he was everything I wanted to be. I thought he would teach me. He would father me. My father died when I was five years old. He didn’t enjoy his fancy things or his fancy friends. He was just a miserable old bastard. It was heartbreaking. Most gay men are miserable. I didn’t want to be anything like him. I ended our relationship. I didn’t need his approval anymore.
Now when I watch the after show for any of the award shows and a bitchy drag queen like Joan Rivers criticizes various actresses, I think to myself, why would anyone care what a face lifted prune would think. Why is anyone seeking her approval? But she’s a bitch, but is she happy?
I saw my friend again at the bar. I again apologized to him. It was important to him that he understood I wasn’t trying to be bitchy. It didn’t take long for me to accidentally insult him again. He said he was waiting for friends. We stayed drinking at the bar for over two hours and every five minutes he kept checking the door. He kept calling their cell phone and it was obvious they weren’t going to show. He seemed really upset almost fidgety. I tried to comfort him. I made a joke that it wasn’t that bad and he was acting like they were his drug connection and he desperately needed to hit the pipe. It was a joke. I thought he would laugh. I knew he didn’t do drugs. He didn’t find my comfort funny. He vowed to never speak to me again. I wasn’t so upset. I decided he was the bitchy one.
I feel as if I have a problem with being misunderstood. I was out with friends at the local bar when I met this young adorable guy. I had seen him several times before and thought I finally speak. He was a sweetheart, new to the city and just looking for friends. We started talking and we were getting along. The drinks kept coming and my friends were getting bitchier by the cocktail. They liked insulting people. I had one friend when we walked down the street he had a catty comment for anyone who didn’t get his dark hard. I hated to know what he thought about me when I wasn’t around. I never considered myself one of those bitchy queens but after a couple of cocktails, I had my slips of the tongue. I was talking to my new friend and I noticed that he was kind of a lush. He had like five drinks in a thirty minute period. I wasn’t so convinced of his innocence anymore. Accidentally, I made the snide comment, “Awww, that’s adorable, a teddy bear who likes the liquor. You should be on all the toy store shelves” I thought it was harmless. My new friend immediately became upset. He thought I was calling him fat. It was true he needed to lose about fifteen or twenty pounds but that’s not what I meant. I was being bitchy without knowing I was being bitchy. I profusely apologized, assured him I meant no hard but he wasn’t convinced. He removed himself to the other side of the bar. My friends asked me what I did, and I told them, they laughed and started calling him “Lush the alcoholic teddy bear.” They even made up a song. I felt bad. I really didn’t mean any harm. I wasn’t that type of person. Or was I?
Every year Mr. Blackwell has a list of his top worse dressed celebrities. Who the hell is Mr. Blackwell and why should anyone care? I’ve gone to the Perez Hilton website and most of the times I’m disgusted with his immaturity but also entertained. He’s an overweight bleach blonde parasite who’s made a living at just being bitchy. I mean the things people can say about him. I’ve watched Kojo give his fashion critics and thought to myself, has he ever looked in a mirror. Even Miss Jay on America’s Next Top model always have something bitchy to say and just look like a run over dog mess.
I question if any of them are happy. I question if they have feelings. I question their sanity. I question what makes them an expert besides being gay and never having anything nice to say.
All the older gay men I knew when I first came out were what I called “bitchy gay men.” They were usually unattractive, drunks, fat, clinging to youth in trade boys and prostitutes, bitter and exploitive. I vowed I wouldn’t grow up and be nothing like them. I told myself I would never pay for sex. I got picked on growing up. I never had the right cloths. I guess I’m very sensitive to other people’s feelings. I didn’t see myself as better.
I fell in love with a bitchy gay man. It was like trying to make love to a cactus. His thorns were always razor sharp, his exterior impenetrable and his words unforgivable. His name was Charles. He was the worse. He complained about everything and gossiped about everyone behind their back. I never once saw him happy unless he was on his knees, but that wasn’t happiness, it was lustful greed. I met him at a writer’s seminar. I thought he was accomplished having won several writing awards and published various books. A friend introduced us. I told him I wanted to be a writer. He smiled and invited me to dinner. Charles was almost fifty years old and I was only nineteen, a sophomore in college. In the beginning he seemed nice. He was witty, cultured and very well groomed. I thought we could be friends. I thought he could be my mentor. I wanted him to critic my writing. I figured I could use him to become a better writer. So I flirted. I don’t know why. I wasn’t attracted to him. I did like his power. I wanted what he had. I wanted to somehow steal it. I wasn’t a fool. He kept telling me how beautiful a boy I was all night. He constantly touched my hand. I was still in college. I had no family. I was alone. I wanted to be successful. Charles looked like he could teach me.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out he wasn’t happy. I naively thought because he was successful, had money, a nice car and apartment, an office with a secretary that he found the secret to a good life. I was sure he was happy. It didn’t take long for me to figure he was lonely. It was an incurable loneliness. He often paid for prostitutes. I was just another concubine. I thought I could be his protégé. I was just a fantasy. And it was so tempting if I just played the role, ignored that he wasn’t reading in my writings, that I was just arm candy at all the events. I felt insecure when they snickered in front of my face that I wasn’t pretty as the last one. I wondered if the one after me would be prettier, would he also want to be a writer, would he be more successful at keeping his identity.
Charles didn’t like any of his friends. He talked about all of them behind their backs, called them old and miserable. He hated his reflection. He would scream and once slammed his first into the mirror. He would warm me that the beauty would fade. Every time he weighed himself he’d cry. He got a gym membership at the university but it was only so he could cruise the young eye candy. It was only so he could insult anyone that reminded him of himself.
It didn’t take long before he turned the rage on me. I couldn’t do anything good enough. He didn’t like how I washed the dishes. He didn’t like how I folded the towels. He would call me lazy and trifling. His words were so hurtful. He would say that I was gaining weight. He would complain that I drank too much and it made me look old. I was just a fantasy to him. The world was just a fantasy to him. I used to think when he made bitchy gay comments about other people he was just being funny. I never thought he would say those things about me.
Seeking his approval, I stopped writing. I stopped reading and struggling as an artist. I went to the gym five times a week. I wore eye cream on my eyes at twenty five years old. I worried about getting older. I started hating anyone younger than me. I became so insecure.
Charles had published another book. He sent me a copy and I never opened the package. I went to the book singing as his date. I looked perfection. After the book party driving home Charles asked me what I thought of the party. I drank too much. I hated being in the shadows. I looked in the vanity mirror and reminded myself I was still young unlike him. Charles asked me what I thought of his book. I told him I didn’t open the package but I was sure I hated it. I hated him. He laughed. I looked at him and it was like I was driving with the Devil. I thought he was everything I wanted to be. I thought he would teach me. He would father me. My father died when I was five years old. He didn’t enjoy his fancy things or his fancy friends. He was just a miserable old bastard. It was heartbreaking. Most gay men are miserable. I didn’t want to be anything like him. I ended our relationship. I didn’t need his approval anymore.
Now when I watch the after show for any of the award shows and a bitchy drag queen like Joan Rivers criticizes various actresses, I think to myself, why would anyone care what a face lifted prune would think. Why is anyone seeking her approval? But she’s a bitch, but is she happy?
I saw my friend again at the bar. I again apologized to him. It was important to him that he understood I wasn’t trying to be bitchy. It didn’t take long for me to accidentally insult him again. He said he was waiting for friends. We stayed drinking at the bar for over two hours and every five minutes he kept checking the door. He kept calling their cell phone and it was obvious they weren’t going to show. He seemed really upset almost fidgety. I tried to comfort him. I made a joke that it wasn’t that bad and he was acting like they were his drug connection and he desperately needed to hit the pipe. It was a joke. I thought he would laugh. I knew he didn’t do drugs. He didn’t find my comfort funny. He vowed to never speak to me again. I wasn’t so upset. I decided he was the bitchy one.
2 comments:
At least you apologize when you realize you've hurt someone's feeling. My gay bitchy friend who I'm very close to dropping as a friend's response after he's been a prick is normally, "you don't know how to be teased", "you're too sensitive" or some other avoidance phrase. Grrrr
I had a bitchy Gay friend, and I really appreciate your post. It allowed me to gain some insight into the "how" or "why" my friend had a compulsive need to be rude. Although, I don't think it was justified.
I think it begins with the rejection Gays may face with society, family, or even friends. If not that then perhaps the image that the media projects onto them. For instance, if you're not the Flamboyant Gay or the Reserved Gay, you cannot really be considered Gay.
Perhaps it may even be the 'coming to terms' with being gay in such a heterosexual-oriented society.
Nonetheless, wholly understanding and being sensitive to the hardships Gays face, I do not think that this "bitchiness" is in any way justified. It is not okay to go and ruin someone else day by stating your "politically correct" opinion, nor is it okay to be ignorant to anyone else's opinion. Just because you're wearing bright blue tights does not make our less colorful wardrobe out-of-fashion or inferior to yours.
Interestingly enough, going back to my point earlier, I really think it all leads back to a hate of oneself. Not being happy with oneself results in bitterness and resentment, which these "bitchy" gays you talk about seem to wholly project.
To conclude, I'd like to thank you for sharing and I feel that we would all appreciate Gays more if they took time to appreciate others.
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