Not Gay Enough or Not Picked to Live in a House

So once upon a time in the mid to late nineties, and to give you some background, I was a proud out gay young man. I had the rainbow necklace. Check! I had the size 32 "Eff" me jeans. Check! I had the Malcolm X quirky glasses. Check! I was the poster child for Generation X queer. I worked at a Coffee Shop. I had a degree in business that I considered to be a mistake. Check! Check! I went out to the bars 4 nights a week. I flirted but never sealed the deal in a totally prudish way. I dug the crap out of the concept of martinis, but actually hated the taste, but still ordered them. I totally loved hoodies in an inappropriate way. I'd work the Doc Marten's and the Chucky Converse low tops alternately until they fell apart. I wasn't a twink. Even when I was skinny enough to almost be one. I wasn't fashionable, except perhaps in my lack of fashion sense which was the fad of the times. I wasn't "cool" or even "kewl", but I was real.

I'd recently escaped Dallas (still thankful) and I was journalling on a daily basis. Check! Check! Check!

So, in my mind, I was a poster child for the angsty new breed of gay dude stepping out of the cloud that I'd spent the first part of the decade in. Gone was the closet. Gone was the chubby insecure geek. Gone was the doubt. Well most of it anyway. All that said, I was practically raised by a TV, so this was my plan:

So on that fateful day in Downtown Austin I walked into a dumpy dance club on my lunch break to audition for duh duh duh, The Real World. Yes, I know. But I was sure of my chances. I went through the cattle call. Picked up my 3 page application. I have no recollection of what they asked, but I remember sitting in between this long Fabio type haired male stripper and this bitter biker-esque lesbian having to explain a couple of the questions. I am certain I journalled about it later. I fill it out, yes Fabio, you may borrow my pencil. An hour later, I get my name called. I walk upstairs for my interview and it's Jasun from the Real World Boston cast. The poet. The douche bag poet. The Effing douche bag poet with a girlfriend named "Timber". He interviews me.

DB Poet: "So, Jed is it? *purses lips* What's your purpose?"
Jed: "Like what? What's my purpose? Like in life?"
DB Poet: *annoyed* "Um, yea, it's a question."
Jed: Blah Blah Blah, Crappity Crap
DB Poet: "It says here that you are gay?"
Jed: "Um. Yea. I guess it does."
DB Poet: "You don't seem like a gay guy."
Jed: "Um. Sorry."
DB Poet: "You seem more, I dunno, just not gay. Are you being yourself? I mean, please, be yourself."
Jed: "Yea, this is me."
DB Poet: "O.K., we'll do it your way then."

The interview continues for a few more minutes, but it was clear that he wasn't buying it. The douche bag didn't think I was gay enough. Not every gay man is the same. My dreams. My future stardom. My chances for trips to the MTV music awards were dashed. By a "poet" with a girlfriend named "Timber".

In all honesty, he did me a favor. That was the season with Irene of Lyme Disease Fame. And I would have totally been a dramatic hot mess.