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Over the past few years, I’ve watched enough NatGeo to know that when it comes to sex, pretty much anything goes. But truth be told, the sex really isn’t what makes things interesting– although seeing a male giraffe trying to mount a female at the zoo was good for a chuckle.

It’s more about what goes on before sex. How is it that two individuals wind up in the sack together? What exactly took place to get them there? My education on mating rituals has been twofold: the detached viewing of wild animals searching for a mate courtesy of National Geographic, and the up-close and personal exposure to the randy desperation of pub crawlers lookin’ to get laid. It was through participating in a pub crawl myself that I observed the rituals that comprise an average night’s partner hunt.

For the purpose of this piece, I will give a pseudonym to the friends I accompanied to the various bars on our journey. Cola is a rather quiet guy, and Iron was more extroverted. They had both been out to the same couple of places recently, so they had a pretty good idea of what the hot-spots would be. While Cola didn’t explicitly state his intentions, Iron made it clear he was looking to get some action. They had observed a trend in the patrons of a certain sports bar nearby, which goes a little something like this:

A sports bar seems like the type of place a bunch of men would frequent. These men might sit at the bar, suck down a pitcher or two of cheap domestic macrobrew, and watch whatever games were on TV. Women, who are out looking to hook up with men, are aware that a sports bar would probably have a higher concentration of men and visit in the hopes that the male/female proportion will be in their favor. Therefore, the concentration of women looking specifically for men will be higher in a sports bar, because that’s where women think the men will be.

Based on this hypothesis, it was decided that the drinking and cavorting would be best done at the sports bar that had a dance club upstairs.

So we went.

Once we were in the bar, we made our way to the dance floor to put the guys in closer proximity to potential hookup partners. While making use of the ever-popular dance sensation, the Caucasian Lunge/Retreat (AKA the default “I can’t dance” dance), I watched as my friends positioned themselves behind or next to a woman. Without openly hitting on her, Cola and Iron worked to get the attention of their targets by dancing wildly or accidentally bumping into her.

After about thirty minutes of vigorous “dancing” and watching as my friends tried to work their subtle charm, I decided to be bolder and grab the focus of a guy by slyly placing my hand on his buttocks. My boldness was rewarded with a few minutes of good-humored dancing before he turned back to his own target.

Now this was a crucial realization for me: by not caring if I left the club alone or had to buy my own drinks, I was free to act however I wanted. Because I wasn’t out to impress someone, I could brazenly pinch asses and hump-dance with whoever was interested. So pinch asses and hump-dance I did.

As my friends and I situated ourselves more in the middle of the throbbing mob of people, we found ourselves face-to-face with a guy Cola and I had met as we entered the bar. I’ll call this specimen Dolittle.

Dolittle originally thought Cola and I were together. He developed an irrationally mounting interest in me once I divulged that not only were Cola I not Chitty-Chitty Bang-Banging, but that I had siphoned males from my dating pool entirely. Dolittle’s reaction was typical of men of his caliber, and I politely declined when he offered me his cock if I ever found myself needing it in the future. What a generous, selfless guy.

When retrospectively making judgments on Dolittle’s behavior, I came to the following possible conclusions:

A) He went to the bar without intending to find some adequately-intoxicated female to hook up with.
B) He was interested in hooking up if it happened, but would be just as content to have fun where he was.
C) He figured he could rile me up enough to forget how I’m oriented.

[In reference to C, I commented to Cola that it was common for men to hit on really unavailable women because they think that with enough effort, they can be that guy to straighten her out. I likened this approach to pushing on a door marked "pull." It's an amusing use of bravado, but ultimately a waste of effort.]

Regardless of what his  intentions had been before we serendipitously met, he seemed to quite driven to pursue Option C’s course of action. And in true player fashion, I led the headstrong hetero along like a desperate and dreamy little puppy.

Dolittle, eager to be so close to a woman who seemed to be having fun with him, began to get a little grabby-handed toward the end of the night. And this is where lack of interest was in my favor. I traded a grope for a drink. Gin and tonic. I thought it was pretty fair.

So I drank his drink, said goodnight, declined his multiple offers to go home with him, and disappeared from his life forever. Did I use him? Perhaps. But do I mind? Not one bit. Because it’s use or be used in this club-scene jungle. And it’s play or be played. And with the right attitude, anybody can turn themselves from being prey to being predator.

For me, that attitude just happens to be apathy. Armed with apathy, boldness, charisma, and a d-z’s worth of other helpful character traits, I can be the ultimate hunter.

And so can you.

[This post is dedicated to the memory and tenacity of Iron, without whom this crawl might have never taken place.]

I’m sure every one of you has heard, whether from time to time or on an annoyingly regular basis, someone referring to someone or something as “gay”. Usually this is said in a tone conveying sarcasm, disrespect, or ignorance in a way that brings to a simmer the blood of any socially-conscious person. However, I feel like I can say– without any fear of admonishment– one thing for certain:

Pride is gay.

Southern Maine Pride took place last week. It culminated Saturday with a parade replete with dykes on bikes, floats sponsored by local gay bars, religious organizations fighting for equality, student groups for gender diversity, and a handful of odds-n-ends guests (a lone man in a black cape, someone riding a tandem bike dressed up like a bumblebee, and a troupe of actors from a local production of “Hair”) The parade started in Monument Square and ended in Deering Oaks Park, where booths, stands and a stage were set up to present, proffer, and perform various ideas, comestibles, and songs (respectively). The group of revelers was at once incredibly diverse and similar, for all in attendance had in common, if nothing else, the spirit of celebration.

The decorations, the floats, the flags, and even the small costumed dogs had this queer glow about them. And the people!—oh baby, the people. Bulldykes, lipstick lesbians, soft butches, androgynes, bisexuals, pansexuals, trannies, grannies, twinks, bears, leather daddies, and topless ladies of both chromosomal origin buzzed around the park like a hive of excitable honeybees. It could’ve been gayer, but only if it was being viewed on TV as shot through a rainbow lens.

It was quite an unusual atmosphere for me to be a part of. And my mild sense of displacement has nothing to do with the people or the goings-on. I’ve got no issue with watching svelte, shirtless men saunter by in a pair of denim daisy dukes. I don’t turn away at the sight of the grandmotherly life-partners sharing a kiss or two next to the lemonade stand. I love every one of the myriad expressions of queerness and hereness.

But the thing that’s always made me a little confused is the name attached to all these festivities: Pride.

When I think of “pride”, I think of something worth being proud of. When I think of something worth being proud of, I usually go next to things that one can achieve or attain, either through individual or collective efforts. Perhaps this achievement required the overcoming of an obstacle of some sort. Pride, to me, is a reward earned from and for ourselves. Pride involves making choices.

A self-made person should have pride in who they’ve become through hard work.

A person who takes confident steps down a winding path of life questions should have pride in their dedication to arriving at some ultimate truth.

A person who is able to break free from a pattern of harmful behavior should feel proud to have overcome themselves.

But should the parade-goers and flag-wavers whose lifestyles don’t fit the heteronormative paradigm feel proud?

One of the largest misconceptions regarding homosexuality is that it’s all about choice. You choose to be gay. You choose to act on it. You choose, choose, choose, choose. But the overwhelming response to questions and accusations of choice is simply “this is just who we are.” So although there is always a choice in whether or not to come out, it would appear as though there is no choice at all when it comes to truly being gay.

Because of my ideas surrounding the topic of pride, I am not proud to be an American. I am not proud to be white, of French-Canadian descent, or female-bodied. I wouldn’t deny that I identify as any or all of those things, but I never chose these aspects of my identity for myself. No choice, no pride.

So to me, being gay is as worth being proud of as having a naturally good complexion, size-7 feet, no family history of heart disease, or a ring finger longer than your index. It’s just part of who and what you are.

However, tremendous pride should be taken in the work of the gay-rights activists who have fought and continue to do so for all of us.

Through great effort and perseverance are events such Pride celebrations able to take place and bring together the local queer community and its allies alike. Wherever the easy choice is made in a difficult situation, amazing things can occur. The magic really happens when so many people from all walks of life choose the same thing for a common cause.

And Pride is magic—and I’m not just saying that because there’s so much goddamn glitter.

So maybe Pride isn’t about being proud of who we are. It’s not about being here and queer and telling the others to deal with it.

Maybe Pride is about being proud of what we’ve done

Maybe we’re just proud of Pride. I think we’ve got plenty of reason to be.

And might I add that there’s a very unique sting that comes from seeing a man’s ass and realizing it probably looks better in those denim daisy dukes than yours would.