Bury Your Gays

by Chuck Tingle

“Regardless, nobody thought it was actually Elvis,” I continue. “No shade to David Duchovny—he did a great job. I also had a good reason to include him. Elvis was a symbol of my relationship with fame and celebrity.” “I still don’t see the difference.” “One choice was for art and the other for commerce.” Jack can’t help cracking a smile. “God bless you, Misha. You still think there’s a difference.”

“Did you know my nephew is gay?” Jack asks. “Congrats?” I reply awkwardly. “I’m just letting you know that I’m not some right-wing nutjob, I understand gay culture. I’m plugged in.” “I’ve known you for like a decade and a half,” I remind him. “You’re very homophobic.”

“Security guards get absolutely destroyed in horror stories. It’s like the easiest way to pad your body count,” I inform him.

This, of course, was the moment that sticks with me forever, the axis on which so many other moving parts of my life would turn. Every decision we make ends up cascading into others, affecting our lives in ways we can’t possibly comprehend. Most of these events seem inconsequential at the time, infinite grains of sand under our feet as we walk on by. Others, however, are huge boulders dividing our journey in two undeniable paths.

Queer people found a home in my writing, and that’s enough to be proud of, but just think of what potential future could’ve blossomed if I’d been more open about my real life. It suddenly occurs to me this is the first time I’ve accepted my own shortcomings on the topic. Being quietly out of the closet was always good enough, but as the hourglass of my life drains I can’t help considering if good enough is really what I’d like written on my tombstone.

For as lucky as I’ve been to carve out a space in the artistic medium that I love, there’s always been a part of me that knew the game was rigged. The only real difference between me and the folks back home in Montana is that I’ve gotten a chance to peek behind the curtain. I’ve been horrified every time. The power imbalance we’ve all known was lurking has mutated well beyond any previous conflicts of rich and poor, which now seem downright quaint by comparison. Fresh weapons have entered the fray, machines with the ability to build capital that much more efficiently. And it’s not the machines that bear the brunt of my frustration, it’s that I know the people who drive them, and there’s no limit to their greed.

“Here’s the thing: it’s not some coincidence that the press has me lined up to be the next true Hollywood train wreck. A closeted gay man at the end of his rope, a guy who destroys his identity before his identity can destroy him. Well, I won’t let that happen. I reject the idea that I’m the star of some real-life queer tragedy, and I reject the very idea of queer tragedy as the only valid form of gay entertainment. “I call on all of you to usher in a new era of stories where the gay, or bi, or lesbian, or asexual, or pansexual, or trans character lives happily ever after. Buy those stories. Make those stories profitable.”

Tara steps up next to me, her eyes locked on the poster. “There’s no asexual hero.” “What?” I blurt, pulled from my trance. “They’ve got everyone up there besides an ace character,” she observes. “Every fucking time.” “Oh—oh!” I stammer, realizing now that she’s right. “I’m sorry. That really sucks.” “It is what it is.” Tara sighs. “I’m headed in.”

“Hey there,” she calls out. “My name’s Tara. I’m the asexual in the corner everyone’s been ignoring.”

“You tell me,” Tara counters. “You’re the predictive text engine with a fresh coat of paint and a multibillion-dollar valuation. You may not have the data from my phone, but you can fake it with a basic knowledge of pop culture, can’t you? You can’t actually create anything new, just variations on what you already have, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Just pull up all the information you have on asexual and aromantic heroes who save their queer companions at the last second.” Tara hesitates, a fire in her eyes now. “Oh wait, that’s gonna be pretty fucking difficult because there are almost no human asexual heroes represented in popular media, are there? In fact, I checked the HBS copyright banks, and guess how many ace heroes I found? Zero. Asexuals have terrible representation, and that fucking sucks, but right now I am so glad you have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of, because you still have no idea I did this.”

On a long enough timeline, endings are inevitable. Tragedy is inevitable. Fortunately, so is joy.