As an adult gay male, I know that there are some of my “brothers” who can never forgive what to them is an absolute sin: to deny us a welcome place in the world. This is an especially egregious denial if it comes from one whom it would be expected an embrace rather than a rebuff. Such is the “shady” side to the life of a famous lady, thought friend and foe, who is no longer with us.

Perhaps no other celebrity, more than Donna Summer, who just passed away (from cancer, at age 63), seems as caught in between that: a kind of gay idolatry and insurrection, simultaneously. Famously it took her “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” statement to make her an outcast to some, while her “Queen of Disco” music made her royalty to the rest. Yet although stuck in the middle she remained throughout the latter half of her recording career, she continued to have hits danced to overwhelmingly by “the boys.” That she never seemed fully able to grasp and appreciate her own musical contributions added more to the mystery of her middledom.

Personally I never had a problem with what Summer said. This may say something forgiving or just plain masochistic about me. But I almost always enjoyed what Summer sang. As a very precocious young male, I was bopping to the beats of her music in a way not at all premature. It was like I knew I was gonna grow up to be a gay man, and that these were the part of the pulsings of my internal being. Sure I got tired of some songs, repeatedly overplayed to the point of revulsion in any sane person. But collectively about her contribution I felt, uhmm, love. Yes, and still I feel love for her. Dark clouds on her horizons now past, Summer’s effect going forward will be one of love. Maybe not for her, but for her songs. Which gave my life and my gay brothers, whether they can all admit it ot not., a love we can share.

Or so it seemed yesterday, and in to today. That the heavens had suddenly opened up and the skies had unleashed a twinkling deluge of rainbow-colored glitter—all over these here red and blue United States. Unless you were under a rock (or “in the closet”), surely you could not have missed this trifecta of pink triangle-related happenings: as when President Obama pronounced that he was now in favor of gay marriage; that John Travolta can’t seem to keep his hands (and mouth, apparently) off his hired male masseurs; and that the FDA is making Truvada an HIV-prevention drug!

Like I said, that’s a lot of “fabulousness” to be inundated with in one day. Like I said, too, there’s still a lot of “gay” residue due. As none of these are “single newspaper” stories. With the exception of the Travolta tale—which, pardon, may sooner rather than later just “blow over”—the others are just at the start of their telling.

So as not to belabour what will be ad infinitum on its own, I choose then to relay only my quick personal/professional reactions to each occasion. In that—as a gay bareback porn performer, for-hire companion, POZ, in a committed relationship, and occasion fuckhole of “celebrity types” male—I think I can have some say over all that’s just transpired, without it seeming to strained to do so. Meanwhile . . .

There’s no way that any one in the GLBT community can not now come out in support of the future presidency of President Obama; he has done too much to secure our rights; and this latest is just a very fine feather in the hat he wears for us homosexuals. It was also a risk he didn’t actually have to take. So our gratitude for his gamble must be paid him by getting to the polls. Come election time, it is clear that conservatives will clamour to voting booths like starving vultures to fresh carion. They shall not leave a single ballot uncast, if only one can rid them of Obama from their sights. Consequently, we must cast aside any idea of resting on our laurels. The only guarantee we have in all this, is that we will lose ground if we don’t cover some—on our way to put in our votes.

In the category of “what was he thinking,” we can now place one-time heartthrob-undeniable John Travolta. Surely if he had to “make the moves,” the man could have chosen some guy not so inclined to move away from his grope?! Or is this about finding sometimes shady types in a sexy-but-not-about-sex business? One that isn’t supposed to be about intercourse, of course, but leans “that way.” In the same manner as when some guys (ahem) show off their ass-ets, and thus can’t really be surprised if another wants a piece. Know what I mean? Sure, I know lots of legitimate massage therapists who wont go “there.” At the same time, they’re always aware that “it” still lays in front of them. Like the client does, stripped to nothing; to be nude but not bare.

Now about Truvada, a drug I know well, and love more than I can say, thanks to its positive effects on reducing my POZ profile to “undetectable.” But even with the FDA recognizing that same power, of these little blue pills, I fear the full potential of their strength will be put aside in favor of the “pink powers that be.” Yes, I believe that the gay establishment, the ones pushing us into behaving more traditionally (and ironically, very much behind the marriage rights that Obama just endorsed), cannot embrace this overture. That’s because this healthier future is underscored by what they expect will be the return of some to our previous promiscuity. To them, there is little acceptance of fornication just for fun; and none without condoms. Even if said rubbers be-cum redundant, by a drug that prevents the transference of this once inescapably deadly disease better than they. So, stay tuned, and with your ears close; as this will be the great hush-hush story of them all. For a long time to cum.

To any guy who’s on this site, your reading about Whitney Houston’s death, just last night, will hardly be news. Still, it is VERY recent—and it did hit me as a rather big deal. No, it wasn’t at all a big surprise that she succumbed, intentionally or by proximity, to the demons that plagued her especially in the last decade of her life. However, I was no less shocked by hearing about what had happened, and how it hit me right square in my heart. Were any of you?

Like many of my (gay male) generation, those in our thirties to fifties, Houston’s celebrity represented something vastly different than the hyperbolic entertainments of a Janet Jackson or Madonna (whom most love dearly, too). Even a Mariah Carey seemed a second-in-command—when it came to her pure vocal talent vs the “Whit’s”. And that was essentially what it was about Houston which drew us to her, and every other person on the planet—who had the pleasure of hearing that voice. It was one which made us all wanna be born singers; to be able to, with the power of forcing air over fragile chords, and at the same time, make so many billions of people: stop, listen, think, dance, cry, and love. Truly a universally given gift. And one rarer—and the “greatest”?—than we may ever know.

I also have my own personal story about Ms Houston. In the scheme of things it’s a very minor one, but back during “another life” of mine, I had the great fortune to be in her company a number of times. I was what you might have called “the lowest form of celebrity”—anyone who has seen All About Eve will know what that means—and never assumed that at first glance she paid me much attention. But by the second encounter, Whitney stopped what she was doing to ask me—by name—how I was doing and how great it was seeing me. She then flashed that amazing smile of hers, and from thereafter her star shown brighter to me than most ever have. This all happened during the period when she was transitioning one group and part of her life out and replacing it with and for another, and when the “lesbian” and “diva” rumours were the most apparent while still under wraps. I have my own thoughts about all that—and a real understanding of the truth of it which comes from being at the right place at the right moment. Notwithstanding all, I was struck then—as I am now—by how she still got to me right squarely where my heart was. It’s a kinda unrequited and very removed one, but I (and so many millions of others) will always love her.

Fire is one of those things that both attracts and scares the fuck outta me. Kinda like the excessively dominant, aggressive top who can both draw a guy of my submissive sort in with the promise of heated passion and then literally burn my butt, mentally and physically, ’til there is nothing left of me but ass-hes. So yeah, fires are like that. Kinda. Also, there is a time and a place for them, too. Tis now the season for them.

But imagine a fire occurring at the worst time. Yet in a place where it’s more a shock they don’t arise more often, as one did just yesterday in San Francisco. By no means was it a conflagration of cosmic proportions; Thankfully it was relatively contained. But no fire, out of control, is less than a potent reminder, for residents of any building that goes up in flames then comes down in ruins, along with safe neighbors separated only by pyre-able planks, of how tragically fragile the comforts of any home may be on any given day. To have it happen hours from Christmas is a horror I wouldn’t wish on my most hated enemies. To those who had to endure these flames, far from the kind of warm and cozy fire any may be fond of, I hope for them the best in the new year.

Yup, New York City just announced it had had its record fifty-millionth visitor(s)! So okay, it’s not really just li’l ol’ me against all of you! However, since I happen to live in the center of the island, about a block from a place you mighta heard of, Times Square, there’s a better chance the greater majority of you half-a-hundred million peeps have come closer to my doorstep than to those of any of my neighbors—who, to their luck, live further up, down, east or even just further west from where I reside. So I do feel as though I bear the “David” brunt of your full “Goliath” force.

Imagine, guys, that many people tromping right across your threshold! Try thinking what that would do to your lawn (in my case, sidewalk)! But really, try to come up with “figurative” comparisons. The city of Orlando  did the minute they’d heard about our crossing the 50 mill mark. They countered with figures showing millions more came to see them. But hey, they were coming to see “the mouse” in a place mostly set up to bring you where you were supposed to meet him and his friends. Here it is different; the rodents you might encounter aren’t an official part of the tour. What is standard, though, are the people who live and work in Manhattan; Yet in a crazy, fragile, unavoidable pas de deux with all these visitors whom, in many cases, allow us to live and work here. How crazily ironic is that?! No wait, what would be even more mind-blowing is realizing how many of the Manhattan servers of outta-towners do not themselves reside inside these confines—due to the island’s lack of space and excessive living costs!

Regardless, I am not totally unappreciative of your coming by. To do so would be totally rude! Sometimes I can be a bastard, but I am not always rude about it! Plus, there are a few moments when I feel the same pull to this place as you do. Except that, the more there are of you the more crowded out become my thoughts of the genuine “here” of New York. Especially in Times Square. Where there can be quite a sense of uniqueness about it; and of the singularity of time and space. But rather profoundly, try finding any space to think of any time spent in Times Square, when in the middle of so many going from there to somewhere else.