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| MY LAST GAY PRIDE DAY |
Over time, we lost many, at first rapidly. And then a slow trickle until those with HIV no longer automatically became symptomatic. It was a hard loss that felt intimate, as it seemed as if it was only happening to those we loved. Afternoons spent in the sun drinking wine were replaced by visits to the hospital. Parties were replaced by memorial services.
During that time, I slowly became more involved with my work and eventually married and became more and more a member of the straight world. No longer was Wigstock in my backyard. Gay Pride parades were less attended. No more sunday night gay parties at the clubs.
I kept all my friendships which only grew stronger over time, especially as the numbers had diminished to a precious clan of those of us who had lived through the silent war. Daily conversations were replaced by weekly, by monthly, sometimes by yearly, without skipping a beat.
In the early 2000s my husband and I started a non-gender bath and body line, and naturally, our launch party was at Beige - Eric Conrad and Edwige Belmore's Tuesday night party. During that time, more friendships were forged with gay men and women, and for a short period of a few years, their numbers swelled in my phone book. The party was back. Sunday nights were spent at Lincoln's, where a group of us had dinner and watched Sex in the City. I was often the in house chef, and loved serving food to a room of happy campers. My friend Boden was chief in charge of taking me out to the clubs when my husband knew I needed a night of dancing with the boys. Steph became the brother I had sorely missed. Until he one day returned home to Berlin when his modeling contracts ran out.
That time ended as adulthood once again pulled us all away into our various relationships and responsibilities.
I remember Gay Pride Day every year as it seems to fall right around the weekend of my husband's birthday. The day is often spent with family and birthday cakes, once again another year no longer spent at the joyous parade, or Phoebe's roof, having the love fest that we once all so adored.
It's been many years since we celebrated together, a happy family of artists and writers, designers and photographers, misfits and miscreants. It is still my favorite holiday.
IN MEMORIAM. [2 of the many friends lost to AIDS. I miss them still.]
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| SCOTT MACPHEE |
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| HAOUI MONTAUG |
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Indeed Sally. This, along with your post about the cons of 15 minutes, somehow make me feel connected in an adult, honest, sincere way, that certainly a fabu get up do not. You may or may not remember that I had cancer at 21, and as much as I had loved all the fluffy exuberance, it made me crave deeper connections. I always felt in many ways misunderstood and unseen and wanting more than what the noisy nights offered though I loved them since boyhood and still do. In sharing these thoughts with the world, dare I assume there is something similar there. I can’t help it, I’m an empath, and a cancerian. That said, turning 40, and just this week 50 (!), I understand wanting to be seen for who you are creatively as an artist and not as a night personality. I do agree with what Rudolf wrote, and I am also thinking of many people, many artists, who bloomed late. I don’t know your age, but you are young enough and talented enough. Thank you for sharing your innermostness with us. I believe in you and look forward to learning more.
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