The Congress of 100% Organic Gay Men

Gentlemen. God, how nice it is to say just one word and know it covers the whole room! Allies, brothers, kindred spirits—and yes, I’ll say it—family. Words can’t express how thrilled I am to welcome you to the First Annual Congress of the Brotherhood of Authentic Gay Enthusiasts! For those who don’t know me yet, I’m Harold Stone, but please, call me Harry. I’m the head of the organizing committee and CEO of IMH—International Male Homosexual—a nonprofit committed to promoting traditional gay values around the world. Just a few months ago, we were meeting in sad pizza joints, in parking lots, in somebody’s garages. Now? We have a stage. We have mics. And we have dozens of us in one room! I see familiar faces—Lenny, Tom, Val… Brian, hey there! I promised myself I wouldn’t ramble, and I’m not even the main speaker today. So I’ll keep it short: We’re here on a sacred mission—to protect authentic, traditional, masculine homosexuality from the ideological chaos and gender noise of recent years. If you’re in this room, chances are, you’ve already felt it deep in your body—every cell aligned with your masculine truth, each one holding a Y chromosome to remind you: something is wrong. We’ve fought for decades. We’ve built this movement. And now we’re being shoved aside. But today, our speakers will address the core issues. They’ll propose real solutions. Just a few reminders: be respectful, be supportive, and please, keep your interactions academic and collegial. Yes, the press is here. And no, we don’t want to reinforce certain persistent public stereotypes about gay men. Let’s show them we’re civil, normal, and composed. Enjoy the day, everyone! …Oh! Right. Almost forgot to introduce our first speaker—ha! Please welcome Dr. Barry Whitman, independent researcher and author of “Masculinities Attract.” He’s also the host of the podcast “Gay in the 21st Century,” with over 200 subscribers—yes, you heard that right, two hundred! His most popular episode, “Gentlemen, Where Are We Headed? The Identity Crisis and the Decline of Male Spirit,” reached 700 views on YouTube in its glorious debut month. Today, Dr. Whitman will grace us with a presentation titled: “Deconstructing the Traditional Homosexual Experience: An Analysis of Destabilization Caused by Gender Fluidity Ideology.” Let’s give him a warm welcome! The speaker emerged from the wings dragging a large, beat-up duffel bag. Harold tensed a little, but instead of anything alarming, the contents turned out to be softcover copies of Masculinities Attract, which Dr. Whitman carefully arranged at the edge of the stage. He counted them, straightened the stack, and only then looked up, cleared his throat, and said quietly:“They’re for atmosphere.” Harold gave him a jerky nod and hurried offstage. Dr. Whitman dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, then used it to wipe down the microphone before leaning in and beginning: “Good afternoon. The book will be available during the break—$49.99. I accept cash or Zelle. You can also get a signed copy with a personalized message. Now, without further ado, let us begin deconstructing the universal experience of the traditional homosexual— and the trials that he—we—face on a daily basis. Please direct your attention to the screen.” A screen, about the size of a classroom whiteboard remained blank. “Let us begin the presentation,” Barry repeated, this time like a command. Still nothing. Now Harold glanced anxiously at the small table next to the stage, where the Congress’s tech support person sat. Judging by the angle of his neck, the tech guy was asleep—and not lightly. He didn’t even stir at the polite applause welcoming the speaker. Harold walked over and shook him by the shoulder. That did the trick. The tech nodded blearily, tapped a few keys, and brought the screen to life—finally revealing the title slide. Two very hairy, very masculine male hands nearly touched at the center of the image. “Next slide, please.” This time, Barry leaned far too close to the mic. The screen changed to a dim, fuzzy photo of a bar—half-full of men in flannel and jeans. Some were playing pool. Others chatted by the counter. If not for the two men in leather vests and caps, there’d be no way to tell it was a gay bar. The mustache-per-square-foot ratio suggested the 1980s. “The Golden Era,” Barry sighed. “I came to New York in 1984, a young man with big dreams. I walked into the first gay bar I could spot… and immediately knew I belonged.” A pause. Someone in the audience called out: “I thought that was Nebraska last Tuesday! You can’t tell the difference!” “Thank you. Humor brings energy to academic spaces and builds community. But if I may continue… Back then, we had calm certainty. We understood each other. We shared values. It was easy to find friendship, connection, purpose. And now… Next slide.” Bright red text appeared on a black background: “The Epidemic of Gay Loneliness” Below it: a red silhouette of a man sitting on the floor—because apparently, that’s what lonely people do. “Now we’re not just excluded by society. We’re excluded by our own community. And why? Because we refuse to call ourselves 'queer'? Because we won’t pretend there are more than two genders? We’re mocked. Shamed. Cancelled. I was cancelled on X for three days once! You say to a colleague, ‘maybe tone it down with the rainbow flags,’ and suddenly the entire office stops speaking to you. You tell your cousin you’re glad they’ve banned medical transition for minors, and suddenly you’re the villain who hates children. Where’s the logic?” Women, am I right?” A few heads nodded. One audience member giggled. “It’s no wonder more and more of our brothers are falling into harmful coping habits. Not that I’m talking about anyone in this room,” he added quickly. “It’s okay, I’m an alcoholic!” someone in the back called out. A few more hands went up in solidarity. “I got a dealer,” someone in the front row said as he stood. “Not trying to share contacts or anything… but if you need…” “Let’s keep comments for the break,” Harold said with a strained smile, still lingering near the stage. “Let’s first give Dr. Whitman the time he deserves. It’s all very engaging and educational. Go on, Doctor.” “Absolutely,” Barry said, already advancing to the next slide. A new slide appeared. The word GAY, pale and understated, sat sadly at the center of the screen — overwhelmed by a cloud of letters: LGBTQIA++, each in a clashing neon color, buzzing like angry wasps. Barry gestured at the screen with the solemnity of a funeral director. “This—this is the core of the problem.” A dramatic pause. Then: “Acronym expansion is not inclusion. It’s a hostile takeover.” He took a step toward the audience, voice rising. “Who are the pluses? Where did the A come from? Why the Q? And how exactly do the Ts feel about us? And, more importantly — we about them?” “That’s me!” someone called out from the second row. “I think I’ve hit every letter at some point. Except the L. But now? Big G, baby!” “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Barry replied stiffly. “But they?” Barry pointed at the screen with the contempt of a man spotting cargo shorts at the opera. “This isn’t just about unisex jeans,” — he nearly spat the words — “No. It’s far, far, FAR worse. This is about the hostile takeover of spaces that have always been—traditionally, historically, sacredly—OURS. It’s convincing young men that they’re bi, not gay. Or worse—polyamorous. Pans. Whatever that means today. It’s constant uncertainty. You never know if the man in front of you is a real man. Want proof of how dire it’s gotten? In my neighborhood, our gay bar became an ‘open queer space.’” Barry mimed air quotes like they were execution orders. His tone was solemn enough to read out war crimes. “But wait, there’s more. Our local gay sauna now has a 'queer day.' You know what that means? It means we have no idea who’s coming in! The dress code changes! We’re forced to wear swim trunks! Like it’s the goddamn Middle Ages. What’s next, taping over our nipples?” He lowered his voice, almost trembling: “I saw… an almost bare female breast.” A horrified gasp did not follow. Just a voice from the crowd: “I saw two.” The man raised his hand, belatedly. “Chaz Delgado, Homosexual Monthly. I’m press, sort of. Can I ask something?” Not waiting for a yes, he launched in: “But doesn’t this actually make things easier? I mean, if you’re literally sitting next to someone topless in a sauna, you’re probably not going to mistake them for a man.” “If only,” Barry said, voice heavy with existential fatigue. “Sometimes, you look at someone—they look like a man, talk like a man, move like a man… they’ve got an even stronger masculine vibe than I do… And then you find out the one thing—the most important thing—is missing.” “You mean… the ability to consider your needs? A sense of humor? The decency to cover their half of the Uber?” Chaz tilted his head, perfectly innocent. “Ahem. I think we all know what I meant.” “I really don’t,” Chaz muttered, scanning the room. “But hey, if it’s in the book, no spoilers, please.” He sat down, with all the grace of a man who’d just stolen a scene on purpose. “The book… right. Please consider purchasing it. Next slide.” The next slide — another triumph of visual restraint — featured a photograph of a statue, armless, legless, and headless, beneath a jagged red question across the top: “Gender Fluidity Ideology: What’s the Threat?” Barry launched straight in, wasting no time: “A person unable to anchor their identity is not merely immature — no, their constant drift across the spectrum seeps into every area of life. “It affects them as workers. As colleagues. As members of society. It is not a personal issue — it tears at the fabric of being itself. One person’s instability causes ripples in others — and next thing you know, a very obviously male individual is demanding I call them ‘they,’ and a woman with breasts the size of my head insists that today she is a man! And that’s nothing compared to the agendered. What’s next? Disembodied spirits? I’m a simple man. In a relationship, I want a man. A real man. Not a self-declared one. But when I dared to decline a trans woman, I was attacked and accused of being transphobic!” A stifled gasp fluttered from the crowd, and once again a hand shot up — and a voice rang out: “Chaz Delgado, Homosexual Monthly. Could you elaborate on the horrifying moment when you were attacked by a woman?” “What woman?” “The one you, uh… declined to engage with, carnally speaking?” “Well, I meant that figuratively…” He hesitated. “And he—I mean, she—looked like a man.” “Ah, so a trans man? An imaginary one?” “You’re… interrupting my presentation.” Barry’s tone was clipped. “It’s a beautiful slide,” Chaz offered helpfully, nodding toward the screen — which now displayed a nearly high-res photo of a Pride parade: flags everywhere, people laughing, sparkling costumes, a drag queen perched triumphantly on the shoulders of two shirtless men. Barry pointed dramatically. “This. This is the real threat.” “I’m sorrrrrrrrrrrry?!?” Chaz jumped back to his feet before even reclaiming his chair. “If you’d let me finish, your questions would evaporate,” Barry snapped. “These so-called queer persons have turned Pride into a public spectacle that frightens ordinary citizens! They wore heels once and we lost a decade of progress! We were just starting to be accepted—blending in, even—and now? This? I’m normal! I don’t want to be associated with drag! Or glitter! Or gender nebulae! People don’t like them—but we pay the price! We were so close to becoming acceptable to heteronormative society. We can still make it… if we don’t give in.” He raised his hand like a weary revolutionary. “For authenticity! For normalcy! For those who still belong!” The applause was… polite. “I still—” “Mr. Delgado,” Harold interjected, his smile pulled tight across his face, “let’s save follow-ups for the break. Our next speaker is already waiting.” “Ah. Got it.” Chaz sat, calmly folding his notebook like he hadn’t just knifed a man with a microphone. “It is my great honor to introduce Daimon Carter,” Harold said, his voice switching from firm to fluttering. “He goes by @QueerArtsMatter — and if you’re not already following him, you will by the end of today.” “And coming soon — his new book, The Homosexual Trace: Cultural Contributions of Real Gay Men from Puccini to Porter. Dear author, is the pre-order available yet? No? Not yet? Oh, well — something to look forward to! Today’s presentation: ‘From Chicago to Polyamory: The Cultural Devaluation of Gay Men in the Age of Bisexuality.’” Daimon Carter emerged like a man arriving directly from the backseat of a limousine — or a memory of one. He moved with purpose, elegance, and just enough delay to let the room savor the visual. His suit? Impeccable. His glasses? Gleaming. The silk pocket square in his jacket? Folded with devastating precision. And when he smiled — oh, the room caught the faintest scent of bergamot and righteous disappointment. He took the microphone into his hand, not tethering himself to the podium, and with a voice that seemed to have been trained at the Royal Academy and sharpened in gay bars, he suddenly sang: “The Phantom of the Opera is deaaaaaad!” Half the audience jolted awake. The other half, who had resolved to remain respectfully conscious, straightened in their chairs like good gay soldiers. Letting the silence settle around him like fog in an empty theater, Daimon continued — softly, achingly:

Memory, all alone in the moonlight

I can smile at the old days

I was beautiful then

I remember the time I knew what happiness was

Let the memory live again.

“Whose heart didn’t beat faster at the very first note? Who among us didn’t, as a wide-eyed nine-year-old boy, slip into his mother’s fur coat, draw uneven whiskers across his face, and sing this song under the glow of a nightlight?” Someone in the audience raised their hand — then quickly realized the question was rhetorical and pretended they were just stretching. “We’ve all been there. Our wide-eyed wonder followed female power as it shattered its chains in Chicago. Only we know what a Sargent painting looks like through a veil of tears. Who but us can truly appreciate the sacrifices of heterosexual actors who threw themselves onto the altar of aesthetics and high art in Call Me by Your Name? We didn’t just carry the arts on our beautiful shoulders — we were the arts. And now?” This time the pause went on so long that people began glancing at each other, wondering if Daimon actually expected a response. He didn’t. It was just another technical hiccup — the tech guy hadn’t fallen asleep this time. He’d just gotten caught up in the performance. A few desperate winks from Daimon snapped him back to reality, and the screen came to life — not with a slide, but with a video montage. Set to Rufus Wainwright’s “Going to a Town,” the screen displayed a cascade of images: — Men’s makeup tutorials on YouTube — TikTok teens dancing in neon crop tops — Concert clips of Robyn, Charli XCX, Lil Nas X — Posters for Challengers and Hide and Seek. — Crowds outside the Richard Rodgers Theatre, where the marquee glittered withHamilton Then — the music cut. Abruptly. On screen: a jittering freeze-frame of a flag, saturated in red, blue, and black, with a large yellow π in the middle. “I’m so tired of you, America,” Daimon half-whispered, half-sang, echoing the lyrics like a confession. Then, with a theatrical flick of his hand, the screen went dark — as if to spare the audience from one more second of what was clearly a visual omen of cultural collapse. “And that flag? Hideous. What even are those colors? Was the designer blind — or heterosexual?” He sighed deeply. “Gentlemen… would it not be wiser for me to fall silent? Must I name what your hearts already know?” He stepped away from the screen like a prophet leaving behind his vision board of doom. “This trend — this soul-scorching sirocco of ‘newness’ — has stripped the gay man of his rightful place at the center of culture. Now Broadway is ruled by straight men. Pop music has no divas. Cinema offers no true drama, no aesthetic suffering. And the Tik-tac charts?” He waved his hand again, pained. "They belong to femboys in neon crop tops, fake freckles, and lipstick that clashes with their undertone. That image is permanently etched onto my retinas, by the way. And bisexuals? Filming their little stories on the doorstep of gay clubs, strolling in with rolled-up jeans and rolled-back convictions, chirping, ‘I just love people.’ It’s a world where borders blur, foundations crumble, and someone you once called brother now turns to a woman and says: “Sure, let’s go to yours. And if something happens… it happens.” A collective gasp rose from the audience. “Exactly! We’ve lost privileges gifted to us by Apollo himself. I can no longer touch a woman’s breast on a whim — can you imagine? And the women! They used to be our allies. Now they’re our rivals — in the battle for these lost bisexual lambs. No, of course I’m not against sharing — sharing is caring — but they never give them back! And polyamory? Saint Mapplethorpe protect us — it’s chaos! No real relationships. No devotion. Just everyone singing their part in a score that no one’s actually written. “Where is the tragic gay hero who can love hopelessly, suffer beautifully, and die misunderstood? And instead—what do they give me? Femboy influencers telling me monogamy is a colonial institution.” He stopped. A beat. “I’m not against The New. I love the new generation. But it… doesn’t love me. Or us. And it doesn’t just reject meaning — it mocks it. But they don’t understand: if they lose us, they lose everything. This isn’t the shedding of dead weight. It’s cultural bloodletting.” He took a step back. Lowered his voice. “That’s it. That’s all.” He tilted his head slightly, almost in reverence. “Let the memory… live again.” The applause was slightly more enthusiastic this time — but still far from ovation territory. Except for one audience member, who stood up, clapped with gusto, and announced: “Chaz Delgado, Homosexual Monthly. No questions — just pure admiration. I genuinely don’t understand how you don’t already have your very own Netflix show. Also, fair warning: you’ll be lightly stalked during the break. By me. I will not rest until I get a selfie and a signed copy of your soul.” Daimon smiled with perfect poise. “Hard to tell how much sarcasm was in that, but I’m open to conversation. Thank you for your attention. I now yield the stage to the next concerned homosexual of a certain age.” There were a few awkward chuckles from the audience. Only Barry looked displeased — perhaps quietly wondering why no one had offered to stalk him during the break.

***

B.A.G.E. Congress Highlights 💅

By Chaz Delgado, Homosexual Monthly (though let’s be honest — it’s daily, hourly, and foreverly) 🧱 Brock. I wish I could tell you that name was fake, but no — this guy was just too classically, obnoxiously, and episodically—wait, no, wrong genre—utopically masculine to be deceiving sweet little me.

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“Yes, these are six-inch heeled boots — is that a problem? This tank top with rhinestones and this exact shade of eyeshadow are essential to my worldview and self-expression today. The brand? Trixie. No, I don’t support drag culture. She just makes decent makeup. Some of it. Her lipsticks are trash. The liquid ones are okay. I guess. Why does everyone keep asking how I identify myself?! Seriously? Are you people okay?? Just last week, I got turned away at a club. Wouldn’t even let me in. That’s discrimination, plain and simple. And yeah, I scratched the bouncer — because he had the nerve to ask about my pronouns. Like that’s some kind of standard greeting now. “Hi, welcome — what’s your name, what’s your star sign, how do you identify?” No. NO. I’m a man. Biologically. Geometrically. Metaphysically. Catastrophically. Universally and unapologetically a man." 🎚️A man whose birth certificate doesn’t just say “mother” — it says MOTHER, and that mother is Gloria Gaynor. A man who, like Moses, can part the rising tide of off-brand dance moves A man whose mere presence causes all those light, floral, vaguely citrusy scents to back away, ashamed of their own softness. Bro— Oh, forgive me. Babe. I see now. I understand the divine connection between meatballs… and appropriation. 😌

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“So I walk up to the DJ, like: Play ‘I Will Survive.’ And he says, ‘Bro, seriously? That’s too 60s. Also, chill on the gay vibe — we’ve got straight girls celebrating a bachelorette party and a bunch of M/F couples. I’ve got Tay-Tay on deck.’ First of all — BRO — it’s 1978, you unwashed intern. Second — this is a GAY CLUB. I don’t show up at IKEA and ask them to hide the meatballs and rename the shelves because it’s ‘too Swedish’ for me. When did it become normal for our spaces to get appropriated? I’m tired of brushing up against boobs — with my back or, God help me, my hands — and being hit with a scent that smells like a morning walk through a meadow in a tampon commercial. That’s not what I came here for. In a gay club? It’s blasphemy. I’m not anti-women. I’m anti-spatial violation.” 🍷Curtis. He samples the tectonic shifts of modern society — and sends them back for lacking depth, structure, and a proper cork. He doesn’t use apps — he prefers to suffer without technology. He is a vanishing era and a beauty that’s slipping away. (Possibly one of those rare cases where someone didn’t try to get all economical with the lube.)

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“I gave up on gay bars and clubs years ago. Honestly, they lost their soul about a decade back. But some nights… Some nights the apartment feels both too small and too big, all at once. Drinking alone starts to taste less like a tasting flight and more like a cry for help — one with a vintage label that reads alcoholism. And in those moments, I realize — I might just be too alone. What? No, I don’t use the apps. Based on what I’ve heard, they’re a direct gateway to hell. And not the fun kind. You have to understand, Chaz — someone like me, who hasn’t stepped inside a venue with a rainbow flag in years— I notice the changes more than most. Like the appearance of a women’s restroom. Can you imagine? And no — not a unisex stall, not something for transvestites or whatever the current term is — no, those folks still use the men’s, don’t they? This was a ladies’ room in the full, old-school sense of the word. I beg your pardon? Yes, of course not only women use it — after all, there are more stalls and fewer people. And then those same women complain to the manager that the stalls are all occupied. And that every single one of them is hosting some form of… physical activity. Pardon the details. I don’t approve of that either. Never have. But really — what did they think this place was?” 😬[Anonymous, for reasons that will become obvious] There’s a reason age restrictions exist. How many times do we have to say it? And yes —ugh, I know. That sounds like victim-blaming. 🙁 But honestly? No one under twenty-one belongs in a gay club. And some people over twenty-one don’t either. Who decided this was some kind of necessary rite of passage, anyway? —Editorial note from Homosexual Monthly: We do not endorse the logical leap in the final sentence, but believe it important to publish this testimony. Please remember: crisis lines exist. Some forms of PTSD are treatable.

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“It took me two weeks to get a fake ID. And you have to understand — I was thrilled. I was shaking when I finally walked through those sacred doors, my first real gay club. I thought: I’ll be with my people! I’ll make friends who get me! I’ll find support! Every single one of those hopes shattered within five minutes. What? No, they let me in. But inside… it was hell. Actual hell. Not even a sexy, fire-and-leather kind of hell. No. Think Bosch paintings. Think Dante, but with worse lighting and overpriced drinks. I felt like eyes were tearing strips of flesh off me just by looking. I stopped being a person and turned into a slab of meat. I couldn’t even describe what people looked like — I was too scared to look directly at anyone. That fear — sticky, primal, stomach-lurching — made me lose track of where I was. I just kept walking. Forward. Pretending not to feel all those hands reaching for me. And then I noticed a weird crunch underfoot. Like leaves. Dead leaves. Except it wasn’t. The floor wascoveredin empty pill packets. After about ten minutes, I got thrown out — because I punched someone who was trying to shove their hand down my pants. There’s no community. There’s no support. There’s just… this. So yeah. When I hear lawmakers raising questions about whether same-sex couples should be allowed to adopt or have kids at alll? I get it. I wouldn’t let anyone from that club near a living thing — let alone a child.” 🦷 Let’s say his name is Tony. No prosthetics in that mouth — original parts only. All his complaints about Zoomers are, regrettably, valid. And once you find out what he’s famous for, you’ll definitely want to know him better. You don’t end up in stories like his by accident — it takes dedication, stamina, it takes effort. Tony, you are nothing like my father.😉

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“I’m kind of a celebrity. My photo was published in the Midwestern Medical Almanac. Well — not exactly a photo of me, per se… More like a very close-up image of my oral cavity. Look it up: fellatio-induced erythema of the soft palate. I still wish they’d warned me in advance that I was going to make medical history. I’d have gotten my teeth whitened or something. Ugh. So. My issue? Ohhh, let me count the ways. That article called me… ‘elderly.’ And that’s not even the first time it happened! At gay bars, I don’t get a discount — I get a surcharge. Because it’s Under 25 Night, and everyone else? Has to pay an extra hundred just to get in. And listen — I wouldn’t even mind paying that much… if I didn’t feel so invisible once I got inside. These Zoomers, man. They scream about how ageism is just as bad as racism — but then the second you talk to them? It’s: ‘Sorry, dude, you remind me of my dad.’” 🎨 Oliver Oliver — which, yes, is ironic. And if you know,you know. Oliver… El— Nope. No spoilers🫢 He’ll explain why you love brunch and hate parallel parking. (Spoiler: it’s not the parking fees. Dammit, I said no spoilers. That was the last one. I swear.) And Oliver? You’re not mistaken — your taste is impeccable. Cobalt and emerald? My compliments, sir. 👑

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“You think cultural blending is harmless? You assume that just because white straight men dominated the arts for centuries — deciding how not just heroes but heroines should look, sound, and feel — that now, those same men, aided and abetted by well-meaning women, should get to decide what gay culture looks like? I’m not anti-Chalamet. I’m anti two straight men in a story where there shouldn’t be any. And for the record, I’m not against gay-for-pay. (Wait, that’s not what we’re talking about? Right. Art.) Look, we’re just like everyone else — consumers of content. And we consume what’s available, not necessarily what’s right. And what we consume… changes us. You start to think the media’s version of 'the gay' is the standard. You think you’re biologically incapable of parallel parking. You fall into the brunch trap. You start believing your taste is flawless because you’re gay. You fall in love with tiny dogs and mimosas. And then suddenly — as if overnight — you hate toy terriers, switch to daily gym sessions, and start trying to become an emotionally unavailable top, regardless of what your actual soul wants. You become convinced no one will sleep with you unless you spend an hour with a shower hose practically shoved up to your throat first — because someone, somewhere, said that’s what gays do. And now they do it. As if it’s required. This is an unprecedented invasion of stereotypes — imposed by outsiders. And that pressure? It needs to stop. Along with the water pressure–related injuries, internal bruising, and the quiet sobs of men Googling ‘how much is too much?’ at 2 a.m.”

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Dudes. This was supposed to be a podcast. A serious one. With a real mic. Maybe even two. At the very least, it could’ve been an interview — something structured. Where I don’t interrupt. Where I don’t spiral. But you have to understand: I was congressed for eight goddamn hours straight. Eight. Hours. I was the only press there. I was the only press in the room — which is basically the same as being the new faceless torso on Grindr on Christmas Eve in, I don’t know… somewhere like Spearfish. Same tongue blisters. Same creeping certainty I won’t be walking right tomorrow. Same feeling that, yeah, technically it was fun… but also, please stop touching me. And I know—I just know—I’m about to run into at least three guys I’ve already blocked. Twice. So what came out… is what came out. Like, share, you know the drill.

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The screen jitters as if someone’s randomly flailing the camera. A voice off-screen: “You’re the selfie stick!” “A selfie stick is what desecrated great masterpieces in museums back in 2015! This? This is a tool for immortalizing you, me, and our deeply noble, potentially historic conversation, bro— Ugh. I will never be able to say that word the same way again.” “Bro. Am I even putting the words in the right order anymore? I don’t know what’s happening.” The camera finally steadies. In frame: Chaz and Harold Stone, seated in profile. Two cocktails in front of them — half-melted, barely touched. The bar is quiet. Their voices are clear. Harold: “So? Final thoughts?” Chaz: “You’re insane. A whole gaggle of emotionally unstable gay men, totally off your rockers.” Harold: “You—That’s offensive! I—” Chaz gently pushes a cocktail straw into Harold’s mouth, lifts his glass like a ceasefire flag. “Shhh. Hear me out. You’re nuts. But so am I. It was awful. It was cringe. A full-on dumpster fire. But also… I get you. I listen. I judge. But I get you. Ugh. I hate being like this. This isn’t why I came! I wanted cartoon villains. People so awful, they loop back around to funny. And instead? I got this. A bunch of men trying to explain themselves in between bitching about overpriced admission fees and this sudden lurch into a weird, aching kind of honesty that made me feel—God help me—on the verge of tears. Guess how many times?” Harold: “Two?” Chaz: “Ten! At least ten. And at the same time? Guess how many times I wanted to look up a quick YouTube tutorial on how to throw a punch — and then actually use it on someone? A speaker, a panelist, an innocent bystander…” Harold: “Ten again?” Chaz: “Three. Maybe two. But one of them was bad. Like, I saw this TikTok once — about holding your keys between your fingers like a weapon — and suddenly I was rehearsing it in my head.” Harold: “When was that?” Chaz: “When someone said trans people either seduce children or don’t exist. It was so cruel, sointellectually dishonest, it activated a kind of primal rage. Not just because it was wrong — But because it was so well-crafted, so manipulative, it made me want to throw something.” Harold: “But surely—” Chaz: “Harry. Harold. My sweet heterosexual-souled homosexual. You’re unguarded right now. And I have keys in my pocket. So before you finish that sentence, just know— Bitch, I will cut you.” Harold: “With… keys?” Chaz: “Don’t judge my accessories! And I don’t care if you think I’m ‘infected’ with gender ideology or whatever term you all made up this week. My head is spinning, I can’t remember the phrase — and honestly? I don’t do well with bullshit. I forget it quickly.” Harold: “So… you agree with us?” Chaz flinches at the mimicry — and launches. Chaz: “Is that what matters to you? Whether I agree? Jesus Christ suffering in style, Harold, would you please stop dividing everyone into ‘us’ and ‘them’? There’s just us. Period. Je suis Authentic Gay Enthusiasts. And International Male Homosexual, no matter what gag reflex those words trigger in me. Je suis Daimon. Oliver. Curtis. And even — Zeus help me — Brock and Barry. You think I’m not afraid of getting old? Of ending up alone? I already wake up some nights with a scream stuck in my throat just from imagining it — and I’m still young!” Harold: “You’re not that young.” Chaz: “Says the man who hears A Star is Born and thinks Judy Garland — not Gaga. You don’t get to throw stones from the royal balcony or whatever they call those little football VIP booths — especially not when your name is Stone, Harold.” Harold: “It’s… not called that.” Chaz: “Oh for Madonna’s sake! I get it! You’ve got so much masculinity crammed in there they had to issue you a backup Y chromosome!” But I am begging you — Stop. The fact that I even remembered Kansas, City, AND Chiefs is already more than anyone should ask of me.” Harold: “…Sorry.” Chaz: “Finally! Progress! I knew you weren’t entirely unsalvageable. Now tell me — do you even know what’s wrong with your whole damn strategy?” Harold: “There’s nothing wrong with it. In fact, there’s everything right with it! Once we restore authentic—” Chaz: “Say another word and I will punch you.” Harold: “Is that a threat?” Chaz: “Yes, Harold. That’s literally what that is. What the hell even happened today at your little Congress? What were you all doing, between the lines and directly in them?” Harold: “We were… outlining a problem and exploring solutions?” Chaz: “And that is the wrong answer. What you were doing was looking for enemies — in all the wrong places. You made a damn vision board full of hot straight guys who’ll give you a noogie and flush your head down the toilet thirty minutes into your ‘friendship.’ And you’ll say thank you, because they smiled at you first.” Harold: “That’s not true! The heterosexual community is—” Chaz: [Pinches the bridge of his nose. Sips his drink.] “No. I’m muting you now. This is my version of noise-canceling. You want to sacrifice trans people? The drag queens? The poly folks? The agender kids? The fluid, the asexuals — why not throw them all in, right? Hand them over to the dragon, and you think you’ll be spared. That you’ll get to sit in some tower untouched, a precious little princess with your virtue intact, and someday a prince will show up and say: ‘Come down, it’s safe now. Here are your full civil rights, neatly wrapped in ribbon. Acceptance? We included a gift receipt.’ Newsflash: that’s not how this works. I’m not even listening to you anymore — I’ve heard enough today. You think women looking for safety are your enemies? You think guys who show up at gay clubs with their girlfriends are the problem? Babe, their masculinity is so non-toxic I could put it in baby formula and the FDA would approve it on the spot. And we’re seriously sitting here clutching our pearls because a bartender rolls his eyes when someone goes from Malibu Pineapple and Alizé to JD and Coke and mutters: ‘Wow, I’ve seen a lot of gay levels, but this is a new one’? Are we really pretending that’s the battlefield? Do we not have bigger fucking problems?” Harold gestures vaguely, flails toward the ceiling like the gay Holy Spirit might descend with clarity, then starts patting his jacket pockets for a pen — a gesture that outdates him faster than the phrase “Ask Jeeves.” Chaz watches. Sighs. Softens. Chaz: “Miracle of miracles — my hearing has returned.” Harold: “This is serious for some of us, you know. Everything we discussed! You just don’t want to see it.” Chaz: “Oh, I’ve seen it. I see it all too clearly. But you all showed half a picture. That whole rant about ‘invading our spaces’? Our spaces aren’t shrinking because someone stole them. They’re vanishing because no one goes anymore. Why spend a whole evening out, leave the house, pay for drinks — when you’ve got an app that delivers the dick to your door? Have you seen how many bars have closed? Have you talked to the owners? More importantly — do you have any idea how catastrophic that is for rural areas? For places where one bar — one single gay club — was also the shelter, the community center, the only place to meet, to dance, to be sober, to be drunk, to be fucking seen? Sometimes the same six people were at the club night and the AA meeting.” Harold: “Gay people don’t stay in the countryside.” Chaz: “Are you stupid, or just cosplaying as one for the brand? What do you think happens when a gay kid finishes high school in a small town? An owl? A fairy godmother? A glowing angel? Shows up with a train ticket to the Big Gay City? ‘Congratulations, your queerness has been approved. Go forth and be fabulous in an urban setting! ’ And FYI? Those rural queers you love to forget? They’re your target audience. Because guess what? They’re way less likely to identify as anything ‘exotic.’ If they even figure out they’re not straight before their second divorce and fifth child, it’s a win.” Harold: “Which proves—” Chaz: “It proves nothing. Only that they don’t have the information — or the time — to understand themselves. They’ve got farms. Mines. Hunting. Or whatever else people do out in the countryside. I don’t know. I’m not an expert in… pastoral hobbies.” Harold: “We’ll never reach them.” Chaz: “Maybe not. But you could at least try. Or pretend you’re trying. Say something —anything— to someone other than urban white men of… What was the average age at that thing, anyway? Not all of them looked terrible.” Harold: “Fair. Can I ask you something?” Chaz: “Of course! Productive discussion! I live for it.” Harold: “Your place or mine?” Chaz: “Oh Gaaaaaawd, Harold!” The phone drops face-down on the bar. 🎥Final clip, stitched on like a story post: Chaz. In bed. Just his face and shoulders lit by phone light. No filters. No irony. Just the pillow and the truth. “I stand by what I said: That was an unholy nightmare. But it had a pulse, you know? And as long as we have a pulse, we’re gonna keep fucking up, suffering, singing Memory too loud, and fighting over who stole gay culture. Which means— We still have it. Culture. And us. All of us. Yeah, you too. Tractor guy.” Pause. A deep breath. A grin trying not to crack. “Okay, stop it. I’m extremely authentic and extremely masculine, so I’ll be crying after I turn the camera off.” #BAGE2025 #JustMenAtTheCongress #ReturnTheBisexuals #ButNotLikeInAColonialWay