It’s official now. I’ve registered for the Gay Games. I’m entered in the 50 fly and the 200 fly events. The 200 fly is the real deal, the reason I’m going, the ultimate challenge. The 50 is just to see if, after I’ve jumped off the starting block, and dolphin-kicked underwater as far as as possible without passing out, I can manage to complete a few strokes quickly enough to rack up a time worth mentioning.
Registering was deceptively simple. All I had to do was fill in a few bits of information – name, address, phone number, and my favorite: transgender? (M-->F; F-->M; no) - and fork over 165 euros. I don’t even want to know how much that is in US dollars. I’ll find out when the credit card bill arrives. Actually, it was more than 165 euros; I paid an extra 125 euros so my partner, D., could march by my side in the opening and closing ceremonies.
Oddly enough, the thought of participating in the opening and closing ceremonies hadn’t occurred to me. At first I thought it was because I was so focused on my original motivation, the swimming (and the chance to sneak an up-close look at hot young guys from all over the world, with their shirts off), that I simply hadn’t gotten around to fantasizing about the parades.
Then I realized it was because, even though I had decided to compete in the Gay Games, I still didn’t believe I deserved to march in the opening ceremonies. That experience was reserved for real athletes. I never had been and never would be a real athlete. I was in a different category. No matter what feats of jockitude I accomplished, even if I succeeded in completing, in an international sporting competition, what is arguably the most challenging event in competitive swimming, that still wouldn’t make me an athlete. I couldn’t be an athlete: I was a sissy. Yeah, well fuck you, Brad Donaldson, captain of the football team, who made my life hell in 9th grade. What kinda shape are you in at 60?
Still, once the question was posed during the online registration process – do you want your partner to march with you? – how could the answer be no?
But that raised a more difficult question: What does one wear while marching in the opening ceremonies of the Gay Games? Something fabulous, yes, but what screams fabulous for a 59-year-old faggot who hasn’t worn a dress in over a decade?
“You have to wear a dress,” my daughter Sarah insisted. She had already declared that, if I was going to swim in the Gay Games, it was only fair that she be brought along to watch, and I had relented. Confident that she had scored a summer trip to Germany, she had now turned to offering fashion advice.
“I don’t think so,” I said, although I do love a nice lace gown. I still have one, my favorite, hanging in my closet from my hippie queer genderfuck days. It’s an ankle-length, peach-colored number, lots of crinoline; I stole it from an antique store in Boston in 1969, as I recall; no easy feat; please don’t tell anyone; I do regret it; I know it was wrong. I used to accessorize the gown with calf-high black combat boots. I also sported a full beard. That was back when my beard was some color other than gray, thus projecting virility, to the limited extent possible while adorned in lace, rather than maturity.
“Maybe rhinestone earrings,” I said. Long, dangly ones. I have several pair, although I suspect that, all of them having been purchased for other occasions, none of them makes precisely the right statement for the opening ceremonies of the Gay Games. I also have a cute pair of pink-flamingo earrings. They could work. There is a Pink Flamingo event: think synchronized swimming on queer steroids. Pink-flamingo earrings could be a statement of solidarity. But no, on second thought, since I’m not planning to participate in the Pink Flamingo event, not this time around at least, wearing the pink-flamingo earrings might be viewed as presumptuous, an attempt at co-optation. I don’t want to step on any toes.
I’ll just have to shop.
I always tend to get hung up on the earrings, although I do realize there’s the rest of the outfit to consider. Summery and loose, off-white linen, an air of casual elegance? Or a tight-fitting hot pink cotton t-shirt, that shows off my pecs (or would, if I had pecs), and ends a couple of inches above my waist, exposing my abs (if I had abs)? Stone-washed Levis or khakis? Long pants or shorts? Cut-off and fringy or hemmed? Should I go retro and do bell-bottoms?
And footwear! Comfort first. I insist. I’m training to participate in a serious athletic event. I’m not about to go messing up my calf muscles two days before the race. Although that still leaves quite a few options. Tevas? (Do they come in pink, or lavender?) Something shiny and silver, with lots of straps, from Thrift Town? (It’s so hard to find anything in my size.) Converse All-Stars (they do come in pink, and lavender)? And if I wear something open-toed, do I get my nails done to match the earrings? Can the pedicurist successfully hide the toenail fungus?
Finally: the hat. I have to wear something, or I’ll burn to a crisp. There’s no natural protection left up there. Even SPF 70 won’t save me. I’m thinking bonnet. I know it will be mid-summer, but I’m partial to Easter bonnets, I always have been. Something that says fresh straw, with a tasteful cluster of preserved rosebuds: burgundy, and dusty pink, and mauve. Maybe I’ll get Ixia to do the arrangement. I wonder how it will travel.
And I thought training for the 200 fly would be the hard part. Silly faggot: the real challenge is going to be pulling my outfit together for the parade. Just thinking about it makes me want to pour myself a glass of Chablis and sit on the veranda all afternoon. And then take a nap. Well, I’ve got time. The opening ceremonies are still 11 months away.
What? What do you mean I can’t wear the same thing to the closing ceremonies? I don’t care if “it simply isn’t done.” How big a suitcase do you expect me to pack?
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