"Do not be misled by what you see around you, or be influenced by what you see. You live in a world, which is a playground of illusion, full of false paths, false values and false ideals. But you are not part of that world. "
Sri Sathya Sai Baba

The sky cracked, like an oil tanker, traveling at high speed, smashing into the side of Manhattan, at the same time that I did, and before anyone could gather their bearings to run, or to hide, or to simply engage and open up their umbrellas, the sky ripped open, seemingly torn from itself by the wound of the booming thunder, and a downpour of cool rain fell onto the crowd.

I welcomed it.

I had not been to a New York City Gay Pride celebration in years. And even when I had gone, I'd generally given up on the festivities about an hour into them and instead headed straight for the bars. The ensuing twelve or so hours spent imbibing insane amounts of liquor, grasping onto plastic cups like they were my golden salvation, smiling and flirting and holding my pride up on stumbling, drunk feet. That was my gay pride. On top of bars and in the glassy eyes of fellow drunks--that's where I found my "ROY G BIV." Ahh, but I was younger then. Youth grants you sympathy from the devil. You make concessions against what you reallly want. I must be getting old, because after ditching the parade, an hour into it as usual, I found myself standing at a bar, waiting, rather uncomfortable in my own desperation, for "ROY G BIV." The swelling crowd, raucous and pretty, made it obvious to me that they had each already found him. They gazed upon eachother with hungry, glassy eyes and wet lips, their body movements accented by intoxication, and I felt left out. Which is a usual feeling for me.

"You shouldn't have to get drunk to have fun at Pride," a friend counselled.
"I'm not trying to get drunk." I blatantly lied, "I'm just...I mean, I want a drink."

I couldn't admit, to rip myself open and let it rain down on everyone around me, that I wasn't comfortable. That I needed the liquor to be comfortable like oil to my hinges, cogs and wheels.

"Maybe the scene just isn't your thing?"

Wait. Is this possible? I'm gay but I don't feel comfortable in the gay world? We went to this one gay bar in Chelsea and I was so uncomfortable, felt so glaringly out of place, that I could barely function. I stood there, at moments immobilized, helpless, my eyes darting nervously from one lacquered pretty face to another. These boys with their perfect eyebrows, faces adorned with foundation, designer clothes and perfect teeth. Who are these people and why am I even here? I was a saltwater fish suddenly dropped in a freshwater tank. But you've done this before, why are you being so affected by it? I don't fit in here, and it upsets me that I don't. I felt anchored down by the energy. It's easy to call these people pretentious, but it's harder to put a word on that energy. It was like a heavy, transparent cloud pushing and weighing down on my shoulders.

"This is probably a good time to tell you this," another friend offerred later that day as I explained the events of the day to him, "You've gotta stop doing this."
"Doing what?" I fiddled with my empty McDonald's cup nervously, "I don't do anything."
"Dude, you're killing yourself."
"You mean like, death?" I panicked, "Like, does my diet suck?"
"No, I mean it's like your spotlight is out." He motioned a cessation above his head.
I glanced around myself, confused.
"Look," he sighed, "Do you remember our first conversation when we met?"
"Um," I pondered, "'That's a fucking wall you just walked into, idiot'?"
"Oh." He looked away, his face blushing, "After that."
"'What fucking planet where you birthed on, wierdo?'"
"Yeah! But, you know, I meant that in a good way. It's like, you're so different. You're genuine and sincere and you always try to make everyone feel good and you care about people. But it's like lately you've been actively trying to kill that part of you to fit in with 'the gays.'" He dropped his voice on 'the gays' for an eerie, spooky emphasis.
"Really?" I leaned in, concerned. "Do you think so?"
"Yeah, dude your light is out."
I scratched my head. "You mean like, on my cell phone?"
He smacked his palm against his forehead in exasperation. "No, Derrick...."

But last night I started thinking, if something upsets you to the point where you have to drink yourself into complacence with it, why would you subject yourself to it? So I did what I usually do when I'm trying to figure something out, I called a friend for advice.

"Because you came out and decided 'this is what I need to be like to be gay' because everyone else is and you've been striving to be a walking stereotype ever since. We all do it. You're just having a harder time crossing over."
"What is this, Unsolved Mysteries?"
"More like Battlestar Gay-lactica."
"Why am I having a harder time crossing over?"
"Because it's not who you are. Your personality knows it. I know it. Everyone knows it. I think you know it, too. You just refuse to accept it. Because you want to fit in."
"What do you mean?" I feigned offense, "My personality is totally pliable! I can fit in with them."
"The fact that you refer to other gay men as 'them' says alot. Besides, when's the last time you even had a one night stand?"
"Um...2000. And that wasn't even really a one night stand. He just didn't return my calls after. I think he had a boyfriend, or something."
"2000! I was in like, high school!" He said, driving his point home, "Having one night stands, myself."
"So, these days they teach 'gay slut' right after reading, writing and arithmetic?"
"Look, don't get bitter just because you're a non-gay."
"I don't get it." I sighed, not caring how sad I looked.
"You're trying so hard to be the physical emodiment of gay. Just like 90% of the faggots you see out there. But you're not. And I'm telling you, that's why people like you."

As the Sunday rains began to drench the Pride Parade, I wanted to tilt my head back and allow myself to be washed over. My friend and I eventually ran for cover, but I wanted to get wet. Soaking wet. I realized I had signed up for something, this "gay", with intentions of eventually handing myself over to it. Because I wanted to be "like them," to be adored and embraced, to be all smiles and brunches and nights out with martinis and phone numbers, to be perfect bodies and an impeccable wardrobe. But, the reality is, I have never been able to do it. I've still got that pen in my hand, suspended mere inches away from the dotted line. I came out at 18, and after a decade of trying, maybe it's time for a new direction. Maybe I should stop trying to find myself in other people. Because the reality of living your own life is realizing that personal security, be it mental, emotional, physical or financial, is of your duty and entitlement. One that cannot be created, maintained and nurtured by anyone but you. That reality can be broken down even further, because life is productivity, and productivity thrives on energy, and misdirected energy yields shoddy, misdirected results. To be cliche, "you get what you give."

In that same Chelsea bar after the parade, I stood nearly ten minutes at the bar while the bartender flirted and only served his apparent friends and those patrons he found personally attractive. "He's so bad," the guy next to me, another friend of the bartender, exclaimed with an ignorant smile, practically yellling over the incessent background thump blaring out of the speakers overhead, "trying to pick up boys from behind the bar!" "Really?", I wanted to say, "He should do his job and work on adding notches to his bedpost on his next break." But I was interrupted, as a guy behind me loudly griped to his friend that he wanted to leave. "It's too crowded." He protested. "Oh, c'mon!" His cute, drunk friend countered, "You can't leave, you haven't gotten fucked in the bathroom yet." I took a deep breath and glanced at the crowd once more. Yes, they were all beautiful boys, impeccably maintained. Yes, to be accepted as one of them and be part of their world would say something about me. Yes, taking one of them home would be a nitro boost to the ego. But the reality is, nothing matters. And it's the illusion of these people, of this gay life, that makes me hate on myself, that makes me try so hard to fit in instead of trying equally as hard to maybe go back to school, or make a relationship work, or call my mother more. Yes, I've been blinded by illusion. But it's time to get real.

I put my money in my pocket. And walked out.