Lucky to Be Gay: "You Like Me, You Really Like Me!"

The streets wind and curve like a snake, and there I am—one of an endless line of well-dressed boys, all waiting in our small, desolate town. Hair perfectly coifed, shoes tied tight, hearts buzzing with anticipation. Our minds race with dreams of fashion empires and popstar fame, clutching diaries filled with bucket list items we can only hope to tick off one day. The questions swirl in our heads: “What will my life look like?” “When will I find my purpose?” “Will I ever kiss a boy?” “What’s a twink?” It felt like a test. Or maybe an interview. No—an audition. That’s it. An audition. A glamorous one, if you squint hard enough.

That’s what growing up gay felt like—like I was always waiting for my life to begin. Yes, I know, it’s a cliché—a small-town boy dreaming of escaping, yadda yadda—but the reason you’ve heard it a thousand times is because it’s true. There are countless variations of this story, but the more gay men I meet, the more I realize we all stood in that same line at some point.

And there I was, waiting my turn. I looked down at my diary, probably with a white tiger on the cover (because it wasn’t too feminine, but it had just the right amount of cunty-ness). I flipped it open, and at the top of my bucket list, in big, hopeful letters: Friendship. Gay friendship.

I was lucky, growing up surrounded by incredible women. Two older sisters. A handful of amazing girl friends. Dance classes where I was the only guy. And I was the only boy on the cheerleading team all through high school. If you know me, you know I adore my girls. But in a town with more cows than people, there weren’t many gays to kiki with.

It wasn’t until I moved to New York City when I truly found people in my community that I could relate to.

Before moving, any time I got the chance to be around a group of gays I spent most of my time trying to impress them—thinking I had to make them laugh, be the life of the party, or somehow fit into some glittering version of what I thought was "gay enough, but not too much.” I thought if I just ticked all the boxes, I’d finally be accepted. But when I moved to New York City, and started to build a real community, I realized something life-changing: I don’t have to be anything. I just have to be me. I don’t need to perform. I don’t need to curate myself into someone I think others will love. The people who are meant for me will love me for the real me—awkward, flawed, and imperfectly fabulous. No glittering persona required. It turns out, being authentically myself was the key to the kind of friendships I’d always dreamed of—genuine, messy, and unashamedly real. And I finally understood what it means to be loved for who I truly am, not who I thought I needed to be.

In the world we live in today—or, as I like to call it, True Life: I Live in the Twilight Zone—it feels more dangerous than ever to just be yourself. Every minority group, including the queer community, is facing the terrifying reality that our rights could be stripped away in the blink of an eye—rights that generations before us fought for. And I can’t help but think about that every time I walk into a queer space. Not only are gay bars an absolute blast, but they’re also a privilege.

When I step into a gay-friendly space, it's like a weight lifts off my shoulders. I can finally breathe a little easier. And yes, that breath sometimes comes with the unmistakable scent of bottom-shelf tequila and poppers, but that’s part of the magic. It’s therapy. It comforts my inner child who longed for a space like this, where I could be unapologetically me—surrounded by people who get it. The sticky floors, the creepy old man at the end of the bar, the constant hum of Gimme More blasting through the speakers. There’s something so grounding about it all.

I’m lucky. I’m lucky I can walk into a bar or club, packed like sassy cattle in harnesses and jockstraps, and know that I’m surrounded by my people. I’m lucky I can watch a drag queen throw down a performance that leaves me breathless. I’m lucky I can flirt with the bartender without fear of judgment. I’m lucky I can break into full choreography in the middle of the dance floor, and no one bats an eye.

I’m lucky that, when a deep cut from Lindsay Lohan plays, the entire room sings along. I’m lucky I can make a niche online reference and have my friends laugh, no explanation needed. I’m lucky that, at a themed party, everyone shows up in full costume—no half-assing it. C’mon, scream it with me from the top of Le Bain rooftop: “I am so lucky to be gay!”

And when I look around the bar, the club, (or the dark room)—I can’t help but smile. Because in these moments, surrounded by my community, I know we’re not just surviving; we’re thriving. These spaces are our sanctuary, and that’s something I’ll never take for granted.

So, if you're reading this and you're part of a community that makes you feel accepted—whether you're gay, a minority, or anyone who’s ever longed for belonging—take a moment to look around and soak it all in. Because no matter who we are, we’ve all stood in that line, hoping for a chance to be seen.

If that kid waiting in line, dreaming of what it means to be truly gay, could see how far he’s come—how many bucket list items he's crossed off, how many real friends he’s found—he’d be over the moon. And so am I.