Welcome to the glamorous gray zone of gayness, where you’re just queer enough to be denied rights, but not queer enough to get an invite to the VIP section of your own community.
I am what some might call a masculine gay man. Which, in today’s queer social economy, means I’m too straight-passing for the party circuit, too boring for the polyamory brunch crowd, and too monogamous for the sex-positive rave collective that somehow managed to Venmo request me for a trip I wasn’t even invited to.
It’s a bizarre place to live. You’re gay enough to be disowned, kicked out at sixteen, sent to conversion therapy where someone tries to exorcise your Donna Summer playlist, and still not get the group chat link for Pride Weekend on Fire Island. (Maybe it got lost in the mail? Right alongside equal rights and basic empathy?)
I’m not the only one. There are legions of us: the not-quite-queer-enough gays. We come in various flavors: masculine-presenting, non-partying, monogamous, socially anxious, or just…boring. We like long-term relationships, grilled cheese, and not being filmed without consent on someone’s Instagram story while they scream “YAS, KING!” during a popper-induced trance.
For the record, I’m not trying to yuck anyone’s yum. I admire the glittering chaos of our nightlife icons and throuple queens. I think everyone should live their truth, especially if it involves mesh shirts and dance floors. But somewhere along the way, the community that once fought for inclusion forgot to leave room for those of us whose ideal Friday night involves emotional security and a show with subtitles.
There’s this unspoken queer caste system: the more visible your expression, the more valid your identity. The more skin you show, the louder your voice gets in the algorithm. The more people you sleep with, the more wisdom you are assumed to possess. Meanwhile, the quiet ones? The ones who survived by blending in, who came out late or were never really “in” to begin with? We’re treated like statistical glitches.
It’s tokenism in reverse. Instead of being held up as poster children, we’re sidelined as relics from a less evolved, less free time. As if surviving abuse, homelessness, cancer, and systemic rejection didn’t earn us any cultural cache because we didn’t livestream it in a harness.
I don’t judge people for casual sex or open relationships. In fact, I wish I had the emotional detachment to treat intimacy like a punch card at a smoothie bar. But I don’t. I need connection. Not necessarily love, but at least a name. A story. A shared laugh. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, or maybe trauma just rewired me to crave security more than euphoria. Either way, I’m not ashamed of it.
And that’s the kicker: I spent years surviving straight rejection only to land in queer spaces and feel like I needed a resume with references, a viral coming-out video, and a glitter BMI under 7% to be seen. When your own people look through you because you don’t “read gay” enough, it starts to feel like oppression is a subscription service you didn’t renew properly.
Try dating in this identity purgatory. Open Grindr and marvel at the bio contradictions: “No fats, no femmes, no masc4masc, only verse top-bottom-fluid neurodivergent drag witches with astrology PhDs and trauma-informed safe words.” I once had someone block me because I said I liked monogamy. Like, casual sex is fine, but loving commitment? That’s where we draw the line, Satan.
Being masculine-presenting and emotionally attached doesn’t make me any less queer. It just means I came out of a different fire. Mine didn’t sparkle, it scorched. It was forged in family rejection, conversion therapy, addiction recovery, and late-night ER shifts watching people die alone because their partners weren’t recognized as family. That’s queer, too. Even if I don’t have the abs or aesthetic to trend.
So no, I might not get the Fire Island invite. I might not be on the float. But I’ll be here, making gumbo with my partner, telling our stories, and showing up for the people who are too often overlooked. The quiet ones. The late bloomers. The survivors. The real ones.
Visibility is not a competition. Neither is oppression. And queerness isn’t a costume contest. So if you’re reading this and feeling like your version of gay doesn’t count—welcome. You’re valid. You’re seen. And you can sit with us.
We may not be on the guest list for the yacht party, but we’ve got heart, humor, and a solid WiFi signal. And honestly? That sounds like a pretty great Pride to me.
And if you think I’m exaggerating, let’s be real: even within progressive circles, there’s still an unwritten dress code. Say you show up to a queer event in jeans and a graphic tee instead of a mesh crop top and metallic hotpants, suddenly you’re the chaperone. The vibe killer. The suspiciously stable adult in a sea of curated chaos. And don’t even think about not drinking. Nothing makes people more uncomfortable than sobriety with a sense of humor.
We talk a lot about chosen family, but we rarely talk about how exclusion often shows up in those chosen spaces. If blood relatives rejected you for who you are, there’s a special kind of grief that hits when queer spaces do the same—just more subtly, under the banner of personal preference or aesthetic curation.
But there’s a world outside the velvet rope. A world where chosen family isn’t curated by follower counts or festival invites. Where your queerness is measured not by how loudly you can shout in a crowd but by the quiet ways you show up for others—and yourself. We exist. We matter. And we’re not going anywhere.
So here’s to the uninvited. The ones who didn’t get the beach house memo, the ones who showed up with casseroles instead of ketamine. We see you. You’re not alone. And while we might not always trend, we’ll always tell the truth.
Because being queer isn’t just about how you dress or who you sleep with. It’s about surviving. Loving. Evolving. And sometimes, just staying.
And if Fire Island ever does come calling, don’t worry—I’ll still bring the gumbo.