I went to a birthday party yesterday. It was a gay birthday party and I was quite nervous when leaving. I put clean sheets on my bed just in case. I’m not sure what I thought would happen, but as the lottery ads say “if you’re not in, you can’t win”.
The party was in a house and every single guest was a Gay. I’ve been to Lesbian Barbecues, but never to a Gay Birthday.
It was every bit as fabulous as you’d imagine. They were well-dressed, handsome, bitchy, witty and dramatic. At first, I felt blubbery, lumpen, humourless and uninteresting. But the initial awkwardness soon wore off.
One of the Gays got a text telling him that One Direction were on the Late Late Show. The party moved from the kitchen to the living room and the telly went on. We were glued to the screen, commenting on the changes in their hair styles and comparing who our favourites were. These are truly my people.
There are too many reasons to love the Gays:
- MTV were doing a Cheryl Cole countdown and most of them could predict which song would come next and could describe the video in detail before seeing it. They also knew all the technical words for her clothes/shoes/hairstyles.
- They all smelled lovely.
- They kept touching each other. Just because.
- They passed around photos of hot guys with no shirts on from Grindr.
- They all knew who Alexander McQueen is.
- The Birthday Boy changed clothes halfway through the evening, like he’s Beyoncé.
- They had an argument as to whether or not Céline Dion is a great Canadian, but were unanimous that Ryan Gosling definitely is.
- They had beautiful hair.
- Their default mode is sarcastic and they really are very funny.
Of course, I felt completely out of my depth, but I loved it. This was the gay world that TV promised me. It really does exist.
Some of the birthday boy’s straight housemates popped in occasionally to grab something from the kitchen. They looked adorably scared by all the fabulousness.
I did have some lovely chats with some of the guys as the night went on, and I was having a really good time. Then the Spice Girls “Wannabe” came on. Four grown men shrieked and gathered around the TV excitedly. Then another one breezed past the television and switched it off as he went past. There was a shocked silence. One of the Gays who’d been excited by the Spice Girls flung the remote control across the room. He threw it hard. It’s a lovely, expensive-looking, grown-up house. He doesn’t live there, but he threw that remote control with all the passion of a toddler. Another one of the Gays (who doesn’t live there either) took offence at this. He roared at the first guy and left the party quite suddenly. What was amazing about all of this was that everyone else seemed to take this for granted. One other Gay and myself hid in the kitchen for a few minutes but everyone else seemed completely unperturbed by this.
The party went on. Then the Birthday Boy and some of the other Gays decided it was time to head out clubbing. I decided against clubbing for two reasons. 1. I was on weekend duty in Hall, and so had to get up at a relatively decent hour the following day, and 2. I had been thoroughly outfabuloused at this stage and I don’t know if I could have coped with much more.
What I found strange was that the remaining Gays didn’t leave. They just stayed in the birthday boy’s house and continued drinking, although they didn’t live there and the people who really did live in the house were hiding from the Gays upstairs.
I stayed for one more drink, on the insistence of the Gays. It was really pleasant. Then the Gay-in-charge turned to me and asked, “Are you kissing anyone at the moment?” I giggled and said that I wasn’t. He said, “It’s just that, I hope you don’t take offence, but you won’t mind me saying that you’re a larger man, and some guys are into that. They really are.”
Of course, this confirmed what I’d been trying not to think all evening. That I don’t belong with these fabulous gays, that I should stick to my own kind, that I have no right to be interested in boybands and lovely clothes. I should really just go and hang out with the big fat gays (bears) and talk about motorbikes and rugby, or whatever it is they’re into. “Some guys are into that. They really are.”
I left soon after this. I walked home almost all the way on my tip toes, drunkenly practising for wearing high heels, because I’ve promised myself that 2013 will be my year of drag. But I still stopped in McDonald’s on the way home for a bit of self-medication.
I know I shouldn’t focus on that one comment. I know what would happen if this was a movie. If this was a movie, I would lose lots of weight, I’d get into the gang of fabulous Gays, I’d think I was happy and then I’d find myself being mean to a fat gay and realise the true meaning of friendship and I’d happily leave the fabulous Gays behind. But life is rarely like the movies.
I had a wonderful night and a taste of what could be, and someone being a prick isn’t going to ruin that. Onwards and upwards.