Tampa Bay Street Team

After the first round of fruity cocktails the gay jokes flew like rainbow flags. As one of the few non-gay CL staffers marching in the St. Pete Pride Parade, I was the ass of most of their jokes. Byron McMullen told me the bandana trailing from my back pocket (which I had intended for midday sweat collection) was actually a type of gay flag. Turns out that along with rainbows, black leather and Lance Bass, bandanas have been co-opted by the gay community. He directed my confusion to a group of men festooned in piercings, straps of leather and combat boots. I spoke to a man with deeply tanned muscles bulging out of tiny black leather shorts and a sash that read, “Mr. Gay Day Leather 2008.” I figured he was a reliable source. Turns out a bandana hanging out of your back pocket indicates whether you are submissive or dominant, depending on which cheek you wear it on. The colors are also significant: Checkered means safe sex only, yellow is water-sports, black and white mean you are up for anything, and red (the color I was sporting) means you’re into fisting. This wouldn’t have been so troubling had I not already been hit on by a gentleman who insisted on helping me set up the CL tent. And I thought he was just being nice.   

Dykes on Bikes kicked off the parade followed by a fleet of boat floats borrowed from the Gasparilla armory and sufficiently gayified by the likes of the Tampa Bay Bears and men in construction caps. The range of floats was about as diverse as the crowd. Spurs Bar pulled a mobile line dancing stage. Actors from Bath House the Musical wore towels atop a Hummer. My favorite was The ROTC (Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps) in sailor caps and sleeveless shirts who whirled rainbow flags in a routine that climaxed with a burst of rainbow confetti. Creative Loafing rode second to last on a fire engine rigged with long range squirt guns and a roaring siren to drown out the protestors who brought up the rear.

“I’m slightly offended,” CL’s Senior Editor, Eric Snider, confided in me near the end of the parade.  

He had encountered one of many men overly eager to get condoms from him.  My hand had been caressed more than a few times when I handed a dude a condom who interpreted the gift as a pick-up line. Another guy attached a “zipper opener” to my fly and demonstrated how it worked. Mike Powers showed me what was under his kilt and offered the use of his “easy-bake-oven.” I’m pretty sure most of these dudes knew we were straight and just wanted to make us feel uncomfortable for all the times they’ve felt uncomfortable living in a hetero-centric culture. But, for all the awkwardness, there were definite advantages to being straight at a pride parade, first of which being the free drinks purchased by guys looking to convert me.  

The parade brought out all types: brawny dykes, lipstick lesbians, drag queens with beauty queen sashes, transgendered divas with gargantuan boobs, hairy bald bears, midnight cowboys, the leather-loving crowd, an overwhelming majority of nondescript people and the guy who goes to all the pride events dressed as a gayer version of Crocodile Dundee and gets off on taunting the crowd with a few lines of scripture from an otherwise gay-friendly text. Many had just come out to support their friends and gay-bors or more likely just to have a great time. You can say what you want about the gay community, but those fuckers know how to throw a party.

Later that night I was off to Nova 535 for “Return to Babylon,” the boys after-party. Tubbs, a CL saleswoman, stood me up, claiming that she was gay-ed-out for the day. I too was tired and wore a sunburn outlining the female sunglasses I sported all day at the parade, but there was no going back. I entered the lion’s den alone. (Ed.— There’s a Goldilocks joke here somewhere.) 

Aggressive, synthesizer-heavy dance music pounded with a quick beat that the male strippers could bounce their fluffed junk to. Bright, flashing lights bombarded me from every direction. The sticky smell of something like scented lotion, and baby powder clogged my nose. It was all very disorienting.   

Stripper versions of Superman, Wolverine, Batman, Spiderman and the boy wonder himself — Robin — gyrated on superhero-themed art installations. A body painter had adorned them further with idealized abs and pecs. Other than the paint, they were covered in about as much material as is used for a Ken Doll’s pants. There were several key differences between these masked men and female strippers. First, they were not hesitant about having their picture snapped. When I held up a camera, they turned toward me crotch first, and posed. Secondly, if the majority of female strippers took care of their bodies half as well as gay strippers, gentlemen’s clubs would have lines sprawling the entire block.  

I began chatting with a bigger, hairier man who looked something like a barbarian ready to charge into battle with the two flags he whirled around. His name was Bill, and he taught me a few things, namely that you don’t have to wear pants to a gay party. Also, it was quite acceptable to take off your shirt or to come dressed like you just escaped from a torture chamber.  

I made friends sandwiched between two shirtless dudes waiting in line for the bathroom. It was nice to know that if I was gay that I could pull the kinds of guys women drool over.  

“Are you new to being gay,” one friendly fellow asked, “or are you just curious?” 

Here was the moment I had feared all night. I had regularly gotten into in-depth conversations, unsure of how to tell them our pleasant conversation was going nowhere. Perhaps there was some sort of button I forgot to pick up at the door. Perhaps my handkerchief was in the wrong pocket. I didn’t just want to blurt it out and offend the guy because I assumed he was hitting on me. Everyone I talked to claimed that they could tell I was straight, but only after I told them. By this logic, they were all just being friendly in talking to me. Maybe they just wanted to buy me drinks because I was sweating. That was when I had my revelation for the week. Gay or not, above all, these men were men. They weren’t talking to me to be nice. They didn’t want to be friends or take me on a fancy date. They just wanted sex. And all this time I had assumed gay men were a kind of super race able to predict the tides of trends and style their hair perfectly. They were just men in search of their next sexual conquest.   

“I’m straight?” I said. 

“No one’s perfect,” my new friend replied, putting his hand on my lower back and pulling me close. 

E-mail Alfie at shawn.alff@creativeloafing.com

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