I remember the last queer dance party I went to. It was towards the end of my final summer in Asheville, stunted in the shadow of a terrible relationship. All summer long, I felt like a ghost haunting myself. I remember standing there in the bar just thinking I hate this. I hate the meat market, and I hate the desirability politics and the plastic performativeness and predictability of it all. I hate feeling like I have to pretend I give a shit who you think is hot to keep up. I hate feeling like I have to scramble to fuck whoever will have me just to feel as desirable as the rest of my friends, because that’s the commodity we trade in.
I said as much to the people I was with, and tore out of there to go pick Josh up so we could drive my loud ass truck up and down Riverside Drive blasting the Military Affairs Neurotic LP and look for shit to break. When I replay the scene in my memory, I have a drink in my hand and I throw it on the floor, shattering the glass to as if punctuate my valedictory statement. That’s wrong though, because I wasn’t drinking that summer. I think the image just makes for a better story.
Roaring past the city limits with the engine opened up and the windows down to the late night, I laughed a lot and breathed easier. That entire summer was bereft of laughter in a big way. I remember a sense of coming home, like punk has always been the one thing that holds true for me, long after everything else cheapens and falls away.
I came back to back to Asheville with a sweetheart a few years later when I was well again. I took them to meet some friends, sitting on the front porch in the sun. As soon as the sweetheart got up to piss, someone made sure to comment “and they’re so hot too” and I just remember feeling like fuck you. You’re talking about this person who I’m sharing the most intimate parts of myself with, but apparently how fuckable you think they are has the final say. I think that’s when I realized how much the culture I had been surrounding myself with had contributed to my sickness.
Shit just mirrors commodification and capitalism and I feel gross.
Riding my bike home from a friend’s house tonight after working a long and hot day on the same bike, I think about how deep my alienation and exhaustion with queer social dynamics runs, like to the point where I wonder how I even identify. The ways I experience desire and safety in intimacy are often in flux, save for a few constants which would probably be described as boring and heteronormative for a lot of people. I don’t think I’ve had a single queer relationship that I didn’t end up feeling disposable on the other side of. Maybe that’s me. Maybe it’s BPD. Maybe it’s having such a hard time existing in this body. I don’t know. I just know I feel too tender and too smart and too vicious for it all. I wonder a lot what will happen to some of my friendships if I find my soul no longer aligning with the identity of mine they are most comfortable with because it fits into their worldview.
Shit mirrors capitalism and I feel gross.