In the early 1990s, I was a go-go dancer in New York City’s club kid scene. I ran around in elaborate costumes and makeup. I’ve shaved my body, colored my hair, and pierced my eyebrow. I’ve been a fashion fag and an enthusiastic pop-culture addict. I’ve challenged gender constructs. I’ve done drag. I talked the talk and fagged out with the best of them. I’ve been to backrooms, leather clubs, bear bars, hipster hangouts and circuit parties. I even marched in a gay pride parade once. I know the gay community from the inside out.
I am not gay. If I was ever truly a member of the gay community—something I doubted even when I traveled in gay circles—I terminate that membership now. I refuse to be counted among them. This manifesto stands as a record of my dissent. Gay is dead. Or at least it’s dead to me. I’m just a man who loves men.