With Pride

Remember that old Onion headline, "Gay Pride Parade Sets Mainstream Acceptance of Gays Back Fifty Years?" Well, the Friday after gay marriage was legalized in New York State was kind of like that. If the Republican senators who jumped the aisle to pass it had been there (or hell, even if the Democrats had), it's hard to imagine them not regretting their decision. The Stonewall Inn was home to shirtless twinks in body oil, drag queens selling ecstasy, and muscle-bound leather daddies. In other words, it was 1982. 

Kevin and I used to laugh about that — what other community celebrates its civil-rights victories by showcasing its most-cliched stereotypes? It's a joke we made knowingly, since that night, we broke all the rules of our almost-marriage. We'd been together for nearly a decade, living together for half that. The kind of couple that everyone texts when marriage passes and asks "When's the wedding?" A model of monogamy in a community not necessarily known for it, especially not among young and outgoing gentlemen like us. 

But we'd been fizzling — sexless and unhappy — and we were so far into our relationship that we felt the need to be secretive about it. Like I couldn't even tell my friends that the sex wasn't amazing (or happening) anymore, since everyone just assumed things were amazing. 

As a last-ditch effort, we'd been experimenting with some non-monogamy, a "don't-ask-don't-tell" model of quiet indiscretions. That night, we took things a step further. We were at opposite ends of the bar, each talking to a new friend, maybe a little more intimately than is ordinary. Then one of us was kissing him, and the other of us fondling, and somehow, Kevin and I ended up side-by-side, walking home, each with a different companion under our arms. I fucked mine in the living room, while Kevin took the bedroom, and then we reconvened for a quiet cigarette by the fire-escape. Still a little drunk and high on sexual adventure, I couldn't tell if what we'd done was an amazing new step for us, a liberated new direction for a rock-solid union, or another last-ditch way to eke an extra six months out of a dying one. 

A week later, we broke up. When I was cleaning my stuff out the apartment, I found a tiny rainbow tiara — a little glow-stick thing that they'd been giving out at the parade. My Friday-night lover had been wearing it in his hair, and it must have fallen out. I held it over the trashcan, and then, tearing up ever so slightly, shoved it in my bag. — Aaron Santos