O R E G O N S L E S B IA N /G A Y /B I/T R A N S /Q U E E R N E W S M A G A Z IN E
SEPTEM BER 17 2010
47
r i
V O IC E S
Gay-on-Gay Animosity
Goddamn, Kaj-anne Pepper can fill a
room—ze kicks one leg and then another
above zis head, an expression equal parts fierce
and serene flashing across his face as he dances
on the Mississippi Studios stage. I’m at Mrs.,
watching the last of his performance.
“This is fucking amazing!” Kristen, my
friend visiting from San Francisco, shouts
over a remix of The Knife, handing me a whis­
key Coke as the dance floor starts moving.
“Hell yes!” I shout in response, grinning. It’s
a perfect mix—men, women and everyone in
between, queers dancing with queers of every
stripe. The disco lights shine over faces, some
smiling with teeth wide, others with the seri­
ous look of people deep into the groove. I look
across the floor and an old friend, dance my
way between femme lesbians and hipster
straight boys over to...
“Marc!” I exclaim, my hand on his shoulder.
“Nick!” Marc shouts in glee, pulling me into
a hug. Over his shoulder, I see the boy whom
Marc was dancing with, a full-on death glare
shooting from his squinting eyes like bullets
into my skull. I smile in an attempt to disarm
the hatred emanating from the guy, to no
avail.
“I’m here with some friends over on the
other side of the floor,” I tell Marc. “Come
find us over there!” I feel the glare follow me
as I dance away to find Kristen and Kevin be-
REMEMBER
b y N ic k M o tto s
A t o c e r t a i n p o in t a t n ig h t,
w ith o c e r t a i n n u m b e r o f
d r in k s in y o u . P o r t la n d s e e m s
s o l a r g e , t h e s k y lin e a p e r f e c t
p r o p o r t io n o f c it y lig h ts a n d
d a r k h ills id e .
neath the mirrorball lights.
There, on the outskirts of the dance floor, an
amazing dance is taking place—and not the
kind that Kaj-anne just showed the crowd
how to do right. Next to Kristen and Kevin,
three women engage in a curious mating
dance—Woman A holds her head high, her
hips moving in time with the music, shaking
fists like fierce maracas with her eyes closed.
Women B and C are fighting for her atten­
tion, alternating between showy displays of
dance and shooting death glares at each other.
Woman A opens her eyes for a moment, ob­
serves the two girls vying for her attention,
closes her eyes again on the strange sexual
power struggle. Women B and C attempt to
knock each other away from their quarry with
their hips, then look upon Woman A as she
laughs at the ridiculous sight.
Where does gay-on-gay animosity come
from? A sense of scarcity, I think to myself as I
dance, watching the two girls duel in a dance-
fight of seduction. There just aren’t that many
proverbial fish in Portland’s sea—there is a
degree to which queers are forced to compete
with each other, to catch one another.
Now, the bar is closing. A green van pulls
up outside, the taxi lights on its roof gleaming
gold, and we pile in, Kristen and Kevin and I
slurring my address to the cabbie. Morrissey
croons through the speakers as the van careens
down MLK, Jr. Boulevard.
To my right, through the dirty window, I
see the lights of the city—the Fremont Bridge
curving majestically over the river, points of
light spread across the West Hills. At a certain
point at night, with a certain number of drinks
in you, Portland seems so large, the skyline a
perfect proportion of city lights and dark hill­
side. As soon as you notice, though, the illu­
sion is shattered; I watch as the view changes
and the limits of downtown make themselves
visible.
No matter how many toes one can step on
in the quest for love, no matter how many
boys one is compelled to sneer at when they
enter a room, no matter how much dyke drama
one can generate, the fact remains that Port­
land is a small fucking town. Never be fooled
into thinking that the city, or the scene, or
your life is an expansive enough pond that the
oil slick of your animosity can’t poison it. Go
for it: Do your best, play a good game, do what
it takes to survive at the best rate you can—but
do it without vengeance.
“I love Portland,” Kristen the San Francis­
can observes to my left, watching the land­
scape outside the taxi change as we roll into
the Southeast, the Arts and Crafts houses,
leaves blowing in the autumn wind. “I love it
so much, but goddamn, it’s small.”The streets
are bare at 3 a.m., dark and cold, the windows
of the van getting fogged over by the heat of
three queers sweaty from dancing.
“It definitely is small,” I agree, leaning back
against the bench seat as we pull up outside
my apartment building. “Very small. Howev- .
er,” I note through a smile, getting out of the
van and holding the door open for my friends,
“sometimes it’s easy to forget.”
hopes the lesbians gave up their
gay-on-gay animosity and went for a ménage a
trois— it surely would have been far more fun for
everyone. Reach him at nickmattos@justout.com.
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