The QB Snap – Buzz from Portland State’s Queen Bee Ryan W. Klute

I am not a bitter, old gay. Though I’m not young either. It’s just that I’m 25 and no matter what I do, where I go and who I meet, I end up meeting the same guys. There are three of them to be exact. Their names change sometimes and the bars sometimes play different Kylie Minogue songs, but I swear, there are three types of gay men in Portland.

And I am sick of them all.

First, there’s Blaze. Or sometimes his name is Blue, Forest or Dune. Regardless of his name, he’s always wears untied boots: too big and a little too worn. His jeans have paint on them from his latest picket sign, and the long underwear under his “Save Baby Albino Lesbian Seals” T-shirt has torn cuffs.

He is mad, and while his anger is misplaced in a multitude of ways, it usually revolves around one of these issues: The beef at this restaurant was not raised on a gay-friendly farm, the advertisement for that sports bar didn’t use gender-neutral pronouns in all of its slogans, or the baristas at this certain Starbucks have recently been forbidden to wear jewelry in all nine of their ear piercings. In short, this boy is pissed at the straight world.

Let me be the first gay man to say: That shit ain’t right! As long as men and women are beaten and killed because others simply perceive them to be gay, then we have a lot of fighting left to do. But I just can’t always be mad at small acts of ignorance.

When the gays and our supporters villainize every act of stupidity, we are effectively yelling “fire” when we see someone smoking. How about we try some non-judgmental education, if they will have it, and leave the “fire” calls for when, I dunno, a gay person is strapped to a fence and beaten to death?

Next, we have Trent, Marco, Baily, Austin or Mikey. He’s not gay because he’s in a fraternity and drives a jeep. He has an out-of-state girlfriend and always has his shirt off in his Facebook or MySpace photo. He likes to drink, especially beer, but that’s usually what gets him in trouble. After three or four beers, he admits he just might be “bi,” and after five or six (and after you help him clean the vomit off his Abercrombie shirt) all he wants to do is fuck.

Listen, I have no problem making out with attractive closeted guys, especially if they are a bit trashed, but holy shit, this cycle has to end. I swear to god that I am not dealing with any more awkward mornings after where we eat Captain Crunch at his house and play video games. I’m gay! I want to help others in their self-journey to find their sexual orientations, but I am less and less convinced that blowjobs in the back seat of his 4Runner are going to help him on his path.

Which brings me to Brian. Or Kip, Miles, Trevor or Billy. He is always short and really skinny. He doesn’t eat because he doesn’t accept that eating disorders are just for women. Also, he does a lot of blow. His low-rise jeans show off his pierced naval, usually with a pink diamond that matches his nose and labret jewelry.

His hates his life for these reasons, in no particular order: He weighs over 100 pounds again, his boyfriend/drug dealer won’t call him back, he is running low on glow sticks and his jaw hurts from what you would expect it to hurt from. And the “E” he has been “just trying” for the last two years doesn’t exactly help either.

He always knows where the rave is at and gets angry because he doesn’t understand why you can’t go and party until 5 a.m. on a Tuesday. He always has condoms, but never uses them. He is never seen with less than six of his clones, and you always have the strong suspicion that he can’t remember your name (that’s because he can’t).

These are my choices and every so often, I think it will be different. But it never is. I’m not getting any younger and I’m still angry and I continue to like guys.

Just don’t call me old, bitter and gay because I am an individual. Labels don’t fit me.