At first i was
flattered that someone was impersonating me on MySpace
with a fake Alec Mapa page. Then it just got creepy.
Particularly when the ersatz Gaysian began posting
comments on other people's pages like
"You're hot!" or "Let's
get together!" or my favorite, "Pee on
me!" While those sound like things I'd
actually say, I didn't write them. So I
narc'd on the imposter, posted a genuine page of my
own, and I was immediately sucked into the gay vortex
that is MySpace.
I am by nature an
extremely nosy person. MySpace is like a gigantic
international queer medicine cabinet I can snoop through for
hours. I click on your profile, look at pictures of
you and your boyfriend in Mykonos, read your blogs and
comments, click on your friends' profiles,
lather, rinse, repeat. I fall down the MySpace rabbit hole
for hours, logging off only when the red-hot glare of
my infuriated and neglected husband burns through my
skin. I'm the opposite of a celebrity stalker. I
don't care if Brad ever leaves Angie for Jen or if
Britney ever finds her panties. I am, however, dying
to know which guys from King of Prussia, Pa., slept
with each other at Gay Days in Orlando. I eavesdrop on
conversations. I'll read a comment on
someone's page like "It was so great
seeing you too. It's been too long. Don't be a
stranger" and then click on the person's
profile to see what prompted the exchange in the first
place: "Thanks for not stealing anything. I like you
so much better since you've stopped doing
crystal." I even write people who write me.
Then giggle when they think I'm an impersonator.
It's the perfect pastime for an insomniac.
On one of
my many late-night snoopfests, I came across a poem about
cutting written by a young gay man living in the middle of
Texas. I've never cut myself per se, but I
completely recognized my own self-inflicted wounds in
his spare, heartbreaking prose. It was so well-written
I left a message telling him how much I enjoyed it. He wrote
back. He told me he was raised in the Bible Belt, surrounded
by cotton farms. To him, being gay meant furtive,
hasty Senator Craig-like trysts in roadside
toilets --a late-night anonymous mauling in the shadowy
recesses of a truck stop. Not seeing himself happy in any of
those scenarios, he joined an "ex-gay"
ministry group in Dallas. After every single meeting
of reparative therapy and prayer, he would cut himself
bloody with a stainless steel razor blade. On the weeks he
missed a meeting, he wouldn't. He'd
attend another meeting and start cutting himself
again. He stopped going completely and hasn't cut
was the ex-gay ministry group that facilitated his
coming-out process. "First of all, it was in Dallas.
I'd never actually seen a thriving gay
community outside a television show or newspaper
article. For all I knew, it was just propaganda set in place
by the 'gay agenda.' Second, I worked in
a home decor chain that's very popular with gay
men. I was outed by the staff before I fluffed my first
beaded pillow." He now lives as an out gay man
and travels all over the country competing as a
blocker in the North American Gay Volleyball Association.
correspond from time to time, dropping each other an
occasional comment or message. I'm not sure
either one of us is wholly convinced that we are the
people we say we are, having never actually met. But
that's the great thing about MySpace. You can be
anyone you say you are--unless you're
pretending to be me. That's just weird.