Spouting the Truth through megaphones and gritted teeth, Antiqueers attack Chicago Pride. Biblical warnings loom on signs that barely scale the fleet of counter-protestors who block them, so they’re relying on jeers to reach the screaming queens.
Because they’ll definitely grab some gay attention when the street is awash with boys in briefs. I’m not one of the usual folks you see at Pride—I’ve managed to avoid the house music and drunken gay boys for the past few years, queering it up at the Dyke March and sleeping in on Sunday. But when I found an opportunity to be in the parade itself, I gave Pride a second thought.
Now I’m part of the Gay masses.
Wading through empty bottles and rainbow beads, I squeeze down the sidewalk between the protestors and counter-protestors. I just danced my ass off danced my ass down the parade route, and my vintage booty shorts are looking a little ragged. But I still swish a little as I walk, reveling in the Superfag version of me that Pride elicits.
I blow kisses to the Very Serious CPD blockade, not planning to engage with the Church of the Hopeless Cause that squeals behind them. But Megaphone Man points a finger at my boyfriend and I, two fierce queers with a post-parade adrenaline high. Big fucking mistake.
So the Boy kisses me, locks lips right in front of the Church of the Hopeless and slips a heathen tongue straight into the Hellmouth. Turns out that PDA really gets under holy skin.
“You’re trying to make me SICK!” our spectator bellows, proceeding to describe our profane act like he’s getting off on it. We pull away and press our faces together, innocent smiles beaming up cardboard warnings of Eternal Damnation.
“Are you in love?” Megaphone Man asks us.
“Yes! We’re in love! So in love!” we reply, Cheshire Cat grins stretching cheeks into cuteness.
“The love of god is more powerful than the profane love of homosexuals! Your love is repulsive!” He goes on like this for a while, but his tirade is marked by a stifled smile. Yeah, we’re precious.
As we begin to walk away, another protestor decides he won’t let us off that easy.
“You know, you still have time to be a real man,” he tells me earnestly. I stifle a laugh.
“Oh yeah. There’s still time.”
Guess he couldn’t tell that this Queen is of the transgender variety.
Sorry honey, you just got genderbent. Please undo your bible belt and go fuck yourself.