It’s that time in New York again. When the citizens of this great city flock to our version of the “beaches” to watch the ships go by. When tight white pants with flared bottoms, neckerchiefs, and sailor caps are acceptable on straight men. When “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” becomes “HEY EVERYBODY! I GOT FUCKED BY A MARINE!”
That’s right… It’s Fleet Week!
What strikes us about this annual celebration (of form-fitting polyester blends) is that sailors actually show up at gay bars. Not anything grotesque or obvious like Beige, but we’ve seen them duck their heads into Nowhere Bar, or lurk, out of uniform, at Barracuda. And we’ve certainly seen them strutting themselves down 8th Avenue in the early evenings, which, for a man in uniform, is akin to walking stark naked through The Ramble at midnight.
See, we’ll do anything to sleep with a sailor. And we don’t just mean us here at Fagats. We mean all of New York City, especially the gays.
But here’s the thing – the Navy won’t accept us into their bunkrooms, but we’ll stain our duvet cover for them any day. What gives? It’s a one-way valve that we have, for years, been trying to make work both ways. Will we ever be successful?
Normally, in this political climate, we’d say probably not.
But then again, if there’s one thing we gays are good at, it’s shoving ourselves into one-way valves.