You could almost hear the bitchslap

I went to buy jeans and was looking for the right pair when the salesperson came over to "help me" find my size. I said, "Yeah, I'm a 28"

"Sure you are honey, we can try those first if you want."

I honestly didn't know what to say.

Love, Sydney

I just got back from a cool ten days in Sydney, Australia. It is somewhat of a long story regarding how I got there, but suffice it to say that the whole thing was an awesome vacation. I knew going into the trip that Sydney is well known for being a gay mecca and that Aussies in general are pretty acceptable of gay people. But it ended up being more than that.

Now, I've done some travelling throughout the United States and abroad. At every destination, I've been fairly cognizant of my sexuality and the considerations that must be taken when being an openly gay person. I think all of us, even if only subconsciously, make some changes when outside of home base. I feel differently when getting a look from a hotel clerk when I correct them that my travelling companion and I will only need one bed. I am more cautious when walking through an unfamiliar neighborhood to a restaurant. I feel, in short, like an edited version of myself. Which is maybe why many gay people choose specific venues like gay cruises, circuit parties, places like ptown, or simply gay bars to spend their time. Yet even then, I am reminded that I am only unedited within this pink bubble of space and time.

When we arrived in Sydney, we headed directly to world renowned Bondi Beach, home of lifeguards, speedos, and international hotties on holiday. Not disappointed. But, it was odd. It was extremely difficult to tell the gays from the, well, not so gays. There was intergender lotion rubbing on the backs of both boys and girls. And choice of swimsuit style, a dead giveaway in the states, was no smoking gun either. And since every one was so nice, sure that some boy was following you into the bathroom for a quickie ended up as truly only an offer to use his shower gel. Even the hot gay dance club ARQ was filled with muscle bound boys shaking their booty in the tight designer jeans, shirtless, on the box, kissing their girlfriends. Either they were straight or gay on one hell of a roll. You just couldn't tell. The city itself put a few million dollars into renovating Oxford Street, the gayest of gay boulevards, in time for Mardi Gras. And everybody was there.

But it didn't hit me until later in the week when we were sitting on a different beach, one with more of a family feel. And by family, I mean the hetero couple and their two kids that sat directly behind us on their large beach quilt and buried each other in the sand - and not in a frightening mafia way. There I am in my orange Aussie Bum speedo, listening to the iPod, when it was time for lotion to be reapplied to my back by my good gay friend Billy. In the states, the family would have up and left - kids shouldn't see such sights until they are drunk and in college. But this crew didn't bat an eyelash.

And honestly, neither did I. Because at that point, I was unedited because there was nothing to edit. I didn't feel different because nobody on that beach was different. We weren't tolerated or accepted, we just existed in that space and time with no bubble required to remind us of who we were or where we were allowed to feel comfortable. And so there was nothing left to do but enjoy the sun, everyone's sun, shining down on all of us the same.

A letter to Mr. Robida

Dear Mr. Robida,

Maybe you turned to the news about how some theatres were refusing to show gay cowboy movies. Maybe you heard your legislators equate homosexuality with bestiality. Maybe you watched as state after state enacted changes in their consititutions to protect marriage. Maybe you followed an AFA boycott and listened to how gay-straight alliances are damaging our children. Maybe you read a protest sign from Rev. Fred Phelps that said that God hates fags.

And somewhere in that small head of yours, they got through. In that like mind it all started to make sense. In your heart of hearts, you believed it your mission to fix the world as they have described it to you - to be their warrior in their fight to be rid of all of us. And so with your arms you swung your hatchet and shot your gun.

You know they will deny you as a psychopath. In the end, they will cut you loose. They will never take responsibility for the message they sent you and you will eventually be forgotten just like those whose lives you undid.

But your hatred will grow because someone else will hear about you and will carry your torch, their torch, and burn humankind to ash until someone says "enough"