As they flipped through the photo album of events from the previous summer, giggles morphed into editorial commentary as each page revealed a new collection of men. Slumped on the sofa across the living room, I’d been lost in a book, but as their banter became elevated, my reading was stunted into silent observation.
“Oh her! She’s a big bottom!” announced the host of the beach house I was visiting on Fire Island.
“Really?” followed my friend in a disappointed tone. “Why is it alllllways the big humpy ones that turn out to be the biggest bottoms?”
“I know,” chimed in another guy in the house. “Don’t you just hate when that happens?!?”
Everyone in the room nodded in agreement over the unfortunate freak of nature; their frustration palpable. Like war-worn soldiers, it seemed they had all encountered, endured and somehow survived this paradox of homosexual life: the gay man who looks like a top, but is actually a bottom—the sexual contradiction.
Perhaps it was the freedom of Fire Island—a place where nature of all sorts effortlessly displays itself: unfazed deer nibbling on bushes; birds lyrically chanting at all hours of the day; raccoons happily ransacking the trash cans while the ebb and flow of the Atlantic Ocean continues to naturally erode the shore, rolling frighteningly close to the edges of the million-dollar homes that line the beach. In conjunction, the diverse array of homosexuality liberally displays itself like no other place in the world—young and old, rich and poor, big and little, all come together to represent and (hopefully) enjoy the glorious freedom the island provides. Yet, surrounded by all that emancipation, the aforementioned contradiction seemed to mark the atmosphere like a big, dark hole. So over dinner, I peppered the conversation with questions—making it a top priority to get to the bottom of things one way or another.
As it turns out, if you are big, older, tall, hung and excessively hairy or possess anything that seems to emote a “masculine” attribute, it is the expectation of the community (it seems) that you play the “position” of top. “Butt,” if you are short, little, smooth, enjoy the occasional drag appearance and most importantly, have “an ass you could rest a drink on,” then you are cast into the position of bottom. And, whether you like it or not, it is your duty to align your sexual desires and attributes. Otherwise you will become a disappointment to those who have fantasized about your façade.
To add to this sexual typecasting, it seems as if being a bottom also—generally and oddly—carries a schizophrenic tag. As a bottom, on one hand (or cheek), the role seems to receive favorable accolades (as long as you fit the visual requirements like a shelf-like ass for resting drinks). Yet on the flip side (or cheek), because you are the receiver, you are also viewed as fey, a pussy, weaker and more female—a tainted label of dismissal.
And to make matters worse, if you are big, well built, covered in muscles, humpy, hairy, tall, and worst of all have a big penis, and still wish to be a bottom (like the aforementioned conversation), then apparently you are the biggest disappointment of all. Then there are those who fall somewhere in the middle—the versatile. If self proclaimed, they seemed to avoid scrutiny.
The following night, infused with new information, I accompanied my housemates to the one community event everyone on the island concurs is essential; that old, albeit fiercely celebrated event: Low and then—if still standing—High Tea.
As we entered the sun-kissed dock, every category of gay was represented, the energy contagious. Naturally there were big, hairy, manly tops and compact, plump-assed, hairless bottoms. Maybe.
As for me, to some (after disappearing to the West Coast), I was recognized with elation, relief that I was still alive. To others,
I appeared to be viewed (oddly at 47) as fresh meat, a conquest to be had. All at once, I felt youthful and old, fresh and seasoned, a daddy and darling. As I was propelled through the intoxicated crowd, hands fondled in different places—the bulge in the front and back of my pants received equal gropes of acknowledgement. But, in light of the dinner table debate, although all that grabbing left me feeling quite popular, it also left me a little confused. My head is shaved, but my arms are hairy. My body is buff but slim. My height is average. My outfit, “classic shade” (as I like to label it), is also somewhere in the middle of good boy/bad boy—plaid golf pants and a black wife-beater. What am I seen as in this sea of men, I wondered? A top? A bottom? Maybe a potential disappointment? When I finally found a spot to nurse my drink and looked out into the mass of men, instead of feeling free, oddly I thought of twisted discrimination.
Our community initially defined itself by its sexual freedom and a sample-it-all attitude (especially in places like Fire Island), followed by the next generation of men (my peers: the middle men) who watched many die. Perhaps we have unknowingly tagged the bottom with a negative meaning—as it was the riskiest way to become HIV-positive. And as the subsequent generation forms, peppering themselves with labels like “straight acting,” then anything remotely resembling submissive or perceived as feminine seems to have become a negative.
Later that evening, after tea, I stopped to glance at myself in the mirror, to reflect and consider my intermediate “position” on the whole debate. Maybe being versatile is like being middle-aged, I thought. You’re old enough to have had some self-defining experiences and (hopefully) to have learned something, yet still young enough to be attentive to the possibility of new ones. Because the way I see it, even if you have a preference (or “position”), it doesn’t mean that’s the way it should always be with everyone you experience sexually….forever! “Bottom” line—eventually we all end up at the same place. So sample everything with everyone—leaving them freedom to do the same—and you will always end up on “top.” But, what do I know? I’m just a middle-aged fag who likes to be touched in all sorts of ways.
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