Gay men sucking huge cocks in locker room
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Who cares if Bank of America takes a pro-love position? Who is impressed by that? Whose heart or mind is changed? And what does that pro-love position even mean? Does the company believe the Employment Non-Discrimination Act should be national law? Does it fight for free PrEP in every state? The decriminalization of HIV? The freedom to donate blood? Adoption equality that matches marriage equality? It’s much easier to be proud of comfortably middle-class dads who want to feed their children Campbell’s soup or Cheerios than it is to extend that pride to a teen runaway celebrating a month of sobriety from meth. Maybe it’s an unintended consequence of acceptance and inclusion, but that doesn’t dull the sting of disappointment and incompetence. Pride is now awash in the do-nothing, say-nothing vacuity of universal aphorisms like “be true to yourself” or “follow your heart” or “let your light shine” or “love wins.” It’s worse than respectability politics because it begs for respect without demanding anything political. Even the Trump tower in Chicago dons rainbow lights for Pride it means nothing-a yuge nothing. We’re at a point where Burger King thinks Pride Whoppers are a good idea. The queer flattening of pride is a response-a deference, really-to the flatness of straight self-ascribed allies and corporate sponsorship. Just as we have let coming out become centered on other people’s comforts more than our own, we have tidied up pride to oblige the guests we’ve been so keen to invite to our celebrations. It’s the cowardice of an athlete or celebrity or politician publicly embracing their queer identity as an urgent social mission but demurring that the urgency does not extend to answering any normalizing questions about their dating life or sex life because they are too personal or private-the paradox of a pride that parades its privacy.
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It becomes, if not straightened, certainly ironed of its kinks. There’s a lazy way pride folds in on itself-a Möbius strip masquerading as an infinity symbol, a knotted rainbow of shackled splendor. Under today’s good-vibes-only toxic positivity of emotional perfectionism where everything is amazing, a blessing, delightful, exciting, and an opportunity, the magic of gay pride curdles and-abracadamnbruh!-suddenly this self-awareness that gave such dimension to queer life bends and bows towards a flattening force. But what was last year’s Pride? This year’s? If parenthood and artistry and career and taste can evolve over the years, then why not queerness? For all the huffing and puffing about diversity and range and spectrum, the life cycle of a queer person is fairly limited: you’re closeted, then you come out, then you’re proud.
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I call it the SGI, a less-nerdy (perhaps more-nerdy!) way of describing the Samwise Gamgee Inflection born out of his Lord of the Rings line: “If I take one more step, it’ll be the farthest from home I’ve ever been.” Every day is leg day when you spend it stepping farther from the closet than you ever have before.īut brokenness is afoot with gay pride. None of those thresholds have names and yet all of them carry significant psychological and emotional weight.
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Life is full of so many similar moments: the moment you’ve lived in The Big City longer than you lived in your hometown the moment your marriage lasts longer than your dating life the moment you’ve worked longer at your job than at any previous job. Every coming sunrise is the dawn of the longest I’ve ever been out. What makes that special this year is it crosses a threshold: I came out on January 10, 2001-7,832 days into my life-and so now every day adds to the majority of my life as an out gay man. Today, June 21, 2022-the longest, most sun-filled day of the year, of course-I have been out for 7,832 days.