I interned and worked in a bank since I was 18 and moved to a consulting firm in my mid 20s. Both industries would be considered difficult to be "out" in. Although I'm not flamboyant, I do not hide my orientation..I speak about it very casually and openly. Things have changed dramatically (in my opinion) within Corporate America. Folks don't even bat an eye anymore when I casually bring myself out. I consult with global companies where the war for top talent is so tough, folks are having to adjust to diversity of all kinds. I'm by no means saying it is nirvana, but it has gotten a lot easier to be a professional who is gay. Btw, I'm also always on the lookout to help any "professional" gay man. I enjoy flamboyant types, I embrace them and although I might find their fixation on sex or queerness annoying, that's part of being inclusive. I like and enjoy the full lgbtq spectrum and expression. I'm particularly supportive of "femme" types in Corp America. I mentor or sponsor at least one LGBT professional every year, and my goal is not to turn them into being less gay, but more proud and integrated professionals (without mainstreaming) while focusing on the strengths & talent they bring to our business. Very rewarding.
Back to the OP and my 2 cents: I'm a millennial (by a hair) and I hit on older men all the time. Yes, an older handsome man is very attractive to me, but I'm typically drawn to the life experience, my partner was 10 years older. There is just a certain je ne sais quoi about mature men (given he is mentally, emotionally, and physically mature). I've been dismissed by wonderful older men bc their bias against my age. Kinda unfortunate.
I suspect that that has to do a lot with what one means by "out" -- a word I struggle with myself from time to time. For some, being "out" means talking about being gay ALL THE TIME. These people I can't abide. I had a group of younger men (20s) over to my house in the country for a party not too long ago and no matter the topic being discussed one of the guys brought everything back to sex and penises. Heck, if we had brought up terrorism he would have asked about the penis size of the Boston bombers. It was annoying.
There are "professional" gay men and there are gay men who are "professionals." There's a big difference. There's no question that it's easier to be out and work in the theater or fashion or a university rather than an office or in a bank. But if you're not going around wearing a caftan and talking about your latest fuck I wonder how hard it would be to fit in anywhere? Just asking.
I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents' house on Christmas Eve. I felt it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I truly thought my mother and my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees.
Boy, was I wrong. Sue me!
I had only known Linda for three weeks when I extended the invitation. "I realize these family things can be a little weird," I told her, "but my folks are great, and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve."
"Sounds fine to me," Linda said.
I had only known my mother for 30 years when I told her I'd be bringing Linda with me. "She's a very nice girl and she's really looking forward to meeting all of you."
"Sounds fine to me," my mother said.
And that was that. Two telephone calls. Two sounds-fine-to-me's. What more could I want?
I should probably point out that in Italian households, Christmas Eve is the social event of the entire year - an Italian woman's raison d'etre. She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the entire evening. Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for. I guess I should also point out that when it comes to the kind of women that make Italian men go nuts, Linda is it. She doesn't clean. She doesn't cook. She doesn't bake. And she has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being.
I brought her anyway.
7:00 PM we arrive. Linda and I walk in and putter around for half an hour waiting for the other guests to show up. During that half hour, my mother grills Linda like a cheeseburger and cannily determines that Linda does not clean, cook, or bake. My father, equally observant, pulls me into the living room and notes, "She has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being."
7:30 PM Others arrive - Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted kids, assorted gifts. We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami, prosciutto, provolone and anchovies.
When I offer to make Linda's plate, she says, "Thank you. But none of those things, okay?" She points to the anchovies. "You don't like anchovies?" I ask. "I don't like fish," Linda announces to one and all as 67 other varieties of foods-that-swim are baking, broiling, and simmering in the next room. My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting uncomfortable.
Aunt Mafalde asks Linda what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Linda says, "Knockwurst."
My father, who is still staring in a daze at Linda's chest, temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, "Knockers?" My mother kicks him so hard he gets a blood clot.
None of this is turning out the way I had hoped.
8:00 PM Second course - The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Linda declines on the crab sauce and says she' ll make her own with butter and ketchup. My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I take my "Merry Christmas" napkin from my lap, and place it on the "Merry Christmas" tablecloth and walk into the kitchen.
"I don't want to start any trouble," my mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands. "But if she pours this on my pasta, I'm going to throw acid in her face."
"Come on," I tell her. "It's Christmas. Let her eat what she wants."
My mother considers the situation, then nods. As I turn to walk back into the dining room, she grabs my shoulder. "Tell me the truth," she says, "are you serious with this tramp?"
"She's not a tramp," I reply. "And I've only known her for three weeks."
"Well, it's your life", she tells me, "but if you marry her, she'll poison you."
8:30 PM More fish ... My stomach is knotted like one of those macrame plant hangers that are always three times larger that the plants they hold. All the women get up to clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Linda, who instead lights up a cigarette.
"Why don't you give them a little hand?" I politely suggest. Linda makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying three forks.
"Dear, you don't have to do that," my mother tells her, smiling painfully.
"Oh, okay," Linda says, putting the forks on the sink. As she re-enters the dining room, a wine glass flies over her head and smashes against the wall. From the kitchen, my mother says, "Whoops."
I vaguely remember that line from Torch Song Trilogy. "Whoops?" No. "Whoops is when you fall down an elevator shaft."
More fish comes out. After some groaning, Linda tries a piece of scungilli which she describes as "slimy, like worms." My mother winces, bites her hand and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see in the sixth row of a funeral home. Aunt Mafalde does the same. Linda, believing this is something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand and pounds her chest. My Uncle Ziti doesn't know what to make of it. My father's dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.
10:00 PM Coffee, dessert ... Expresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel. When Linda asks for milk, my mother finally slaps her in the face with a cannoli. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Linda, believing that this is something all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, picks up a cannoli and slaps my mother with it.
"This is fun," Linda says. Fun? No. Fun is when you fall down an elevator shaft. But amazingly, everyone is laughing and smiling and filled with good cheer - even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder and says, "Get the bitch out of my house!"
BtmBearDad reacted to + Truereview in Do you get hit (online or in person) by young men?
