Boys Will Be Boys - My Philadelphia Story

Now that it’s legal for gays to have sex, there’s an expected backlash. Polls show that an increasing number of Americans are withdrawing their support for equal rights for gays. In their namby-pamby, "love-the-sinner" opposition to the looming "threat" of gay marriage, conservatives like Franklin Graham are saying things like "we could lose marriage," the way I might lose my keys. Graham suggests that age-old traditions such as throwing a bouquet into a sea of screaming bridesmaids or the revered bachelor party are about to disappear forever.

He needn’t worry; the bachelor party isn’t going anywhere.

Recently, I was invited to…not a bachelor party, but an entire bachelor’s weekend in Philadelphia. My straight, funny (gorgeous) friend David is getting married in September. In response, his friends decided that restricting alcohol, pool, strippers and hangovers to just one night wasn’t going to be sufficient.

I knew I had to go—David has been a great friend to me, "the coolest straight guy I know" for the past six years—but I dreaded it. I knew that my time with David would be limited, and I’d spend most of my weekend communing with his straight conservative friends.

I admit it. Large groups of straight men scare me. I don’t know how to behave around them. I refuse to closet myself, but I also don’t want to be the gay poster child whenever I’m the token queer in the room. I’ll tell myself to just "act normal," and eventually realize that what I’m really saying is "act asexual." Usually, I give in to my internalized homophobia and do just that, but this is a bachelor’s weekend, where traditional marriage meets drunken debauchery in a way that even George W. Bush would approve of—how was I going to pull that off?

As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. This is a brief run-down of my trip.

Friday night. I drive from Washington to Philadelphia in the pouring rain. The trip lasts for four and half hours, but I eventually find myself upstairs in a just-seedy-enough-to-be-charming pub, playing pool with David and his friends, and not feeling nearly as awkward as I had planned. Behold, there’s actually another liberal in the room. And he’s no ordinary liberal; he’s a speechwriter for Nancy Pelosi. And the other guys are really nice. They’ve clearly been forewarned about the pending arrival of a homosexual, and are on their best behavior. I’m surprised…and so are they—I’m having a good night at the pool table, and am foregoing my Cloud 9 Cosmopolitan for manlier beverages like beer and tequila. Lo and behold: he’s a guy.

Saturday afternoon. The Phillies are playing the Red Sox at Veterans’ Stadium. Having never been to a baseball game, I’m pleasantly surprised to learn that being in the stands is 25% sports and 75% eating and talking—activities in which I already excel. David’s still suffering a nasty hangover, and the rest of the guys seem to keep forgetting the homo in their midst—after a stream of crude jokes on every subject, a minor but good-natured jab will be made at gay men, immediately followed by a "that didn’t offend you, did it?" To their relief, my answer is a constant "no, that was actually pretty funny."

Saturday evening. It’s one milestone after another for our young gay reporter—my very first "gentleman’s club"—which is ironic, since "gentlemen" clearly aren’t the ones on display. Above the bar, there’s a girl with artificial rock-hard breasts, a G-string, and 10-inch platform heels giving herself a soft-core self-exam. David is feeling better; it didn’t take much arm-twisting to coax him into the obligatory bachelor’s lap dance. Everyone in our company expects me to be disgusted by all the female jiggling and gyrating; instead, I’m oddly amused. "First of all," I state, "those boobs aren’t fooling anyone." The puzzled looks on the faces of my new friends tell me that indeed, they’re fooling everyone but me. "Secondly," I say to myself, "I’d really like Senator Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania to walk in here and explain to me why this place is ever so much better than what you’d find at a gay bar." At least our go-go dancers have rhythm (though I feel I should give these girls some credit—some of the things they did with a pole and 10-inch heels could get them into the Olympics if they’d only put some clothes on).

Sunday morning. After another helping of greasy eggs and bacon (nothing I’d call brunch), it’s time to head home. I’m actually going to miss these guys and wish I had a chance to know them a bit better. To my delight, the airport is on my way home, so I get to take David there—meaning thirty uninterrupted minutes with a friend of mine, and a chance to catch up. I told him that the weekend was a great experience for me. It reaffirmed my faith in America in a way that I really needed.

What I realized, after trips to a baseball stadium and a strip club, games of pool and tabletop shuffleboard at Dave & Busters (don’t laugh; it was fun), was that we’re in a good place. I know that six out of the seven guys I met this weekend will vote for Bush again in 2004; I didn’t change that. But I also know that they comfortably "hung out" with a gay guy for an entire weekend in a way that a bunch of twenty-something straight guys could never have done ten years ago.

I reflect on the history of this country, and I know that the good guys always win; it’s practically written into our constitution. The abolition of slavery wasn’t easy, but it happened; it had to. Women’s suffrage wasn’t easy, but it happened; it had to. Legal recognition of gay relationships won’t be easy, but it’ll happen. The tide has already turned. Our president has to find a way to deny us our rights without being openly nasty to us, and we can already get a legal marriage certificate in North America. We’re winning.

In a month, I’m flying to Minneapolis. I’ll watch my friend David stand nervously at the altar, awaiting his bride’s arrival. He’ll take his vows and kiss the bride, and I really hope I don’t cry. I’m very happy for David. I’d never want to take that experience from him. But I want it for myself, too. And I know it’ll happen…someday.