Happy Pride

I remember watching my very first gay parade back in Boston in 1984. I was working at Mrs. Field’s Cookies on Charles Street and had no idea that such an event existed. Suddenly, there they were -hundreds of men and women marching past the store and exploding en masse through its doors buying every sweet concoction on the shelves. I was often times the only one in the tiny cookie palace on the weekends and this day was no exception.  Taken completely off guard, I feverishly tried to make as many sugary sweets as was possible while being strangely excited by all these boys who were suddenly in front of me. Yes, because back then, believe it or not, I was firmly in the closet.

And among the crowd was the handsome man who always came into the store for a double chocolate chip brownie. I never got his name, but I can still remember his face and how he had the most delicious looking lips I have ever seen. I always gave him a free milk or soda and never charged the full weighted price of the brownie.  I didn’t realize then why I was so attracted, or rather, I should say I didn’t want to give voice to what I knew was the truth.

The parade passed me by that year as I looked out from behind the counter, and I looked forward to when I would see my favorite customer again. As the years went by, I had many opportunities to join in other celebrations – romantic and parades alike. And as I’ve gotten older, my participation has faded and I escape to quieter destinations. There’s something soothing about being in Provincetown or Palm Springs when it seems all the gay world has congregated in the major cities. It doesn’t mean that I’m not proud – as some may question.  I like to think that it is just a reflection of the person I have become.

What kind of person is that you ask? Okay, maybe you aren’t asking that, but for the sake of argument, let’s pretend you are.  Thirty years after my first pride experience, I’m still a work in progress, one who took the gay scene for a great spin when I came tumbling out of the closet and  is still as proud to be whom I am today as I was back then. 

The one thing that hasn’t changed, though is my desire to meet that someone who makes me feel the way I did when the boy with the luscious lips came into the store. It is that thrill of seeing someone in person, finding that one spark – that uncertain something that makes your pulse beat faster and causes you to feel flustered that no matter what anyone tells me cannot be duplicated through a computer screen. It’s an emotion I’ve felt a few times since, but, not one that’s been of any recent memory. Every time I come to the desert or board a plane or go someplace new, I wonder if this will be the moment it happens. Who will take the seat next to me on this cross country flight? Who will be eating next to me at the bar of my favorite restaurant? What could that moment bring? And when it doesn’t happen, I still never lose the sense of hopefulness that it could happen the next time. For as bitter as I may seem or how I portray myself, there is still that young boy who is watching his very first gay pride parade, staring at the object of his affection and reveling in the celebration that will follow.