By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
By Raillan Brooks
The First Couple:
Don Bachardy and Christopher Isherwood
Interviewed by Armistead Maupin
You told me once that you felt you had entered the gay rights fray too late, that you wished youd gotten involved earlier. In what way?
Well, I never really felt, myself, that I was leading the charge, or taking the role of some kind of leader. Never for one moment. On the other hand, I never denied that I was queer. During all those years in Hollywood I just took it for granted that they knew what I was doing. I suppose it was a kind of arrogance.
When were you first aware you were gay? What are your earliest memories of feeling homosexual?
Very early, I suppose those boys in Germany.
Chris, your long term friendship with Wystan Auden is a matter of record. Did you begin that as lovers?
Now, we had lots of sex, but there wasnt a romance at all.
What we call a fuck buddy these days.
A fuck buddy, yes, thats what we were. It would have been unthinkable under the circumstances if we hadnt at least tried. (1985)
The Way We Were
By George Chauncey Jr
By the end of the decade some observers remarked that New York's drag balls had surpassed those of Chicago and New Orleans in size and opulence, and that the city rivaled Berlin in its tolerance of such affairs. . . In the late '20s the police regularly turned out in force to guard and maintain order at these extravaganzas. They were not the only representatives of legitimate society there to observe; the Vanderbilts, the Astors, and other pillars of respectability took boxes to view the spectacle below. Carl Van Vechten, a chronicler of the Harlem Renaissance, whom one newspaper described as "quite familiar with many of the brunettes in question," occasionally served as a judge at the beauty contests which were the highlight of the balls; on one occasion he joined two other prominent literary figures in awarding first prize to a young man almost "stark naked, save for a decorative cache-sexe and silver sandals, and..painted a kind of apple green. (1986)
The Politics of Drag
By Edmund White
Marsha patted a dab of rouge on his brown cheeks, added a scent of faded cologne, focused on me, on the potato salad, on the air, and continued on his lazily singsong voice.
"I was in a lot of raids before. All the street queens were. The paddy wagon was a regular routine. We used to sit in our little 42nd Street hotel rooms'hot spring hotels' they used to call themand party and get high and think about walking down the street someday and not worry about getting busted by the police. That was a dream we all had, sitting in those hotel rooms or in the queens' tanks of the jails. So, honey, when it came that night, I was ready to tip a few cars for a dream. It was that year1969when I finally went out in the street in drag full-time." (1979)
Butching Up Is Not a Liberated Act
By Michael Musto
There are supposed to be eight million ways to be gay. But these days more and more of us are trying to seem "straight"the old "Hey, we're just like you" approach, which could nauseate anyone who came out to celebrate the idea of not being just like them. Mandatory macho has given the butches ammunition to purge the femmes from gay male consciousness. It's gotten so bad that we're dividing up our usual turf into styledistricts: Clones in the West Village, fashionites in the East Village, and guppies wherever a branch of Charivari can be found. These people have always eyed each other warily, but nowadays, they approach each other as if they don't even belong to the same species, let alone sexuality.
Now, some femmes are walking around with vises on their hips to keep them from swiveling, and developing such firm handshakes they sometimes draw blood. It's a lost causeswaggering like John Wayne, most femmes would still be called by his real name: Marion. But that hasn't stopped former Miss Things from doing their apartments in Stallone posters, and trading in the sweatshirt that says "I never laid a hand on those fucking kids. Sincerely, Joan Crawford" for a button-down shirt, pullover sweater, and nice, heartening smile. This is the uniform of a gay man who yearns to be taken seriously. I'd rather see Divine tell (or eat) the real poop. (1987)
By Karen Finley
There was a knock at my dressing-room door."Ms. Finley? Someone is here with a package that must be PERSONALLY delivered, HAND DELIVERED." "Why, let him in, by all means." My voice became Blanche Dubois-and she did fancy Stanley, that beast!
The intern was delivering my trousseau, the copies of gay porn. I instantly imagined the exchange as a metaphor for the gay male editor who had assigned the piece standing over me, holding his golden genitalia and saying, "I insist on hand delivery." And I respond with fire in my eyes, "Let him in, by all means," as I open myself and wrap my long legs over the beast shoulders and he mounts me and I become his animal. (2001)