I’m gonna marry her anyway

It’s 2 p.m. and somewhere in Miami there’s a throng of gays and lesbians scrambling to find rings and making impromptu bouquets. My heart is filled with overwhelming joy and can’t wait to see my basic cable channels flooded with images of happy couples kissing on the six o’clock news.

To clarify, what is happening is that a judge has allowed same-sex marriages to take place throughout Florida – even though there is an appeal pending.

Like a dark cloud over a gay pride parade, I can’t help but look up at that appeal and wonder if it’s going to ruin Lady Bunny’s make up.

I’m not sure that’s the right analogy.


I’m just a bit concerned. This is the state of Florida. Strange things happen here. For example, on the heels of this announcement five counties have stopped marrying people all together. That’s right straight people of Duval County, you can’t get a quick courthouse wedding – how does it feel to be on the other end of the Lady Gaga stick now?

Something interesting does happen when you can’t really marry the person you love, and that is you learn to improvise.

Very early into our relationship, when I was still trying to impress her with my audaciousness, I convinced her to attend a pagan festival that honored the harvest moon. Several times we avoided each other’s glances to prevent embarrassing giggle attacks, except when we were invited to light a candle together and quietly set our intentions. There was something about that moment – one that we still talk about today – that felt like we were at our own wedding.

She is of the opinion that I orchestrated that whole thing to trick her into marrying me under some New Age binding spell, but I’m simply not that clever.

A few years after that, we proudly drove to the nearest Kinko’s (before the FedEx merger) and had our Miami-Dade County Domestic Partnership affidavit notarized by a lovely woman named Yosneidy who tried her best not to give us the side-eye.

Six weeks later we received our certificate, which, in case of an emergency, I could show to a nurse at Hialeah Hospital in the instance that she wouldn’t let me in the room to see the Librarian. Luckily, I’ve never had to use it. Mainly because I’m the one that is constantly injured and the Librarian is always needed in the room to translate my ailments in a way that doesn’t make me sound like I have Munchausen.

And a few years after that, we celebrated the accomplishment of our tenth anniversary on a white-sand beach and, with the sunset as our only witness, we exchanged bands and promises while barefoot.

So, you see, by my estimation, we’ve been sort-of married many times.

But honestly, I just want to be married-married for real one time.

And as much as I want to mark this historic day with my unofficial wife, it would be too much to bear to have my real, legal marriage taken away from me if the appeal doesn’t go the right way.

At the risk of sounding like a beauty pageant contestant, all I want is for all adults to be able to consensually marry the person they love. It’s not that hard. Ask the Attorney General of Florida, she’s done it twice (and twice divorced).

It seems like all signs are finally pointing in the right direction, so I’ve decided to begin chilling that champagne bottle a dear friend gave me expressly to open on the day when I finally got married.

In the meantime, I wait, I watch, I celebrate those who are much braver than me. Those willing to take the risk of having it all taken away. I’m grateful to them and are in awe of their strength.

This future Bridezilla wishes you Mazel tov!

1044074_392346337538152_831522883_n (for now)

Wrecking ball

Recently, I went to a party where a gay man insisted on showing me his newly constructed rectum. And it was as traumatic as it sounds.

So, there I was, minding my own pour of alcohol, when the host of the party brings over the gay man in question to officially introduce us.

“You know Angel, right?” he asks in that way that straight people do when they assume that all gays know each other.

I replied no and proceeded to engage in polite small talk with the gay, so that my friend would feel satisfied about his hosting abilities and comfortable enough to leave us alone.

I was almost done going through my small talk questionnaire – you know the one that consists of questions like, where are you from and how do you know the hosts – when I lost control of the conversation.

“Are you staying long?” Angel interrupted.

“Not too long.” I hesitated.

“Me neither. I have a date that’s meeting me at the club.”

And like the timing of a sit-com, his phone rings.

“Oh, look it’s him, hold on.”

Hold on? My ass. This was my cue to walk away, but Angel apparently needed an audience. He put up his finger and blocked my exit with his body.

Under normal circumstances, I get out of situations like this by also holding up my finger, which trumps the other person’s request. Try it next time you find yourself stuck, it works, and it’s guilt free. It’s the equivalent of immediately hanging up after being put on hold because the person on the other end of the phone got a call from someone more important than you.

But this time I decided to keep my finger down and listen in on the conversation because, as I correctly guessed, this exchange had a high probability of becoming a blog post.

Hola,” he said into the phone the way that my mom does when she is talking to a small child.

And then his tone immediately changed. It became aggressive, for no reason, unless I missed something nuanced, but from what I could tell, the guy on the other end only asked him what he was wearing to the club.

The conversation ended abruptly, without Angel’s confirmation of what he was wearing and at what time he was arriving at their predetermined meeting place.

Angel looked at me and said that he didn’t like guys telling him what to do because, he, in fact, was too old to deal with the bullshit of younger men.

I asked Angel just how young his date was to which he proudly replied that the guy was 23.

Now would be a good time to point out that from my generous guesstimation, Angel is somewhere between late mid-life crisis to early Cialis commercial. And just as you are pondering that age difference and the oddity of Angel’s attitude, I too was confused…until Angel explained that he could get any man he wanted because his ass was perfect (a statement he made while snapping his fingers).

I’ve had plenty of bottom friends and, yes, they go on and on about their capabilities (although, not five minutes into meeting them at a party). And I, as I do when I hear this nonsense, rolled my eyes at Angel and said something cynical, like “I’m sure.” To which he responded:

No, no. A mi me reconstruyeron el culo.” (No, no. My ass has been reconstructed.)

En serio?” (Seriously?) 

This is when I knew I hit gold.

I didn’t need the visual confirmation to believe him, but he insisted on showing me a picture, which interestingly he keeps on his phone (hoping and praying to one day be hacked to have his asshole blasted all over the Internet by someone other than him, I assume). I looked over his shoulder as he ran his fingers through a carousel of dick pics that were allegedly sent to him, as he looked for his ass surgery photos. They, the dicks, I mean, looked more clinical than sexual, but my vision could have been clouded by the sudden bubble of invisible vomit that had ascended my esophagus toward my mouth.

When he finally landed on the image, he said, as he shoved the phone in my face:

Mira eso. Dime que eso no es una escultura.” (Look at it and tell me that it’s not a masterpiece.)

Several responses rushed through my mind, but were deemed inappropriate by my mouth filter. They were:

  • It’s clean.
  • Is that a selfie or did someone take this for you?
  • That could be anything. Let me see it for real.
  • It looks like the back of my friend’s cat.
  • Do you have a before picture?

Instead, I opted to say, “Wow.” Followed by, “It was very nice meeting you.”

Ding-Dong DOMA and Prop8 are dead

It was Jay-Z who said, “Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst/Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?”

And that’s kind of how I felt this morning. Until about 10:03 a.m. when the SCOTUSBlog.com flashed, “We Got DOMA.”

Although they meant it as “We got the decision on DOMA,” I took it as we the people got, as in took down, that ridiculous law. At that point it didn’t matter what they meant. The fact was that we had won. The rest was a blur. Phone calls and messages began pouring in. And then the Prop8 icing on the cake – although a slightly smaller win, it’s a win indeed and we’ll take it.

It seemed surreal to be watching history unfold from behind a computer screen, unable to scream for fear of scaring the nice people right outside my office. But, in the end it was okay. Because the internet served as my megaphone, and the megaphone of so many others. Here were a few of my favorite moments:




(originally appeared on BOUNDmag.com)

What a day! Mark your calendars: 6-26-13 is our new anniversary. And it’s a joyful one. One that makes our hearts burst with pride, which is a wonderful contrast from the other anniversaries we keep – like the anniversary of  our martyrs Harvey Milk, Matthew Shepard and Brandon Teena, or the date of the Stonewall Riots.

No. Today is not about honoring the fallen, but about pushing the movement forward. We did it. Together, we influenced public opinion, we broke through closets, mainstreamed drag culture, and now California’s Proposition 8 and the discriminatory Defense of Marriage Act both crumbled before our eyes.

Marriages in California are expected to begin again soon. And, lawfully-married couples living in the 13 states that allow same-sex marriages will soon have equal access to all the federal rights and benefits based on marital status. For married couples living in states without marriage equality, there is less clarity. So, that means that our work isn’t completely done. We must rally the remaining 37 states to join the rest of the country.

We must do this together. Because, like I always say, alone we are isolated, but together we are BOUND. Marriage BOUND.



(orginally appeared on People.com)

Matthew Shepard’s mom weeps over gay marriage ruling. He asked me if I thought gay couples would ever be allowed to get married and he wasn’t at all optimistic it would happen. He was in a mindset of, ‘People are never going to accept us or understand us,'” she says. “I wish he’d been here to see it.”



(orignally appeared on Banana Republic’s Facebook page)

As a San Francisco based-brand, we celebrate the Supreme Court’s ruling moving California forward on the road to marriage equality.

We support love for all & invite you to participate in our#BRLove4All contest. Couples—same and opposite sex—are invited to share their photos for the chance to be outfitted by Banana Republic for their nuptials (or other special occasion).

Enter Now: http://bit.ly/19tOELX