My So-called
Wife

Confessions of a Getaway Gay

“Sir, would you or your wife like anything before we open the doors to the cabana?” asked one of the attendants.

My friend Kristie and I exchanged knowing, playful glances from across the massive beds of mud.

“Um, no. But thank you. I think my wife and I will be just fine,” I confidently replied.

“Well, OK then, you two enjoy your time together.”
 And with that, the two attendants peeled away the wall of doors then left us alone. As we oozed down into our separate tubs of mud, we giggled to each other. Gazing out at the spectacular view from atop our mountain bungalow, my “wife” asked, “Do you think they’re your team?”

“Definitely!”

“That’s funny,” she said, between sips of icy lemon water. “I think we threw off their gaydar!”

“Yep. I think you’re right! Who woulda’ thunk? Me a married man! Go figure.”

We chuckled again, then moved on to savor the amazing getaway we’d concocted, eventually falling silent. While I soaked in silence, the vat of sludge penetrating every pore, the amazing mountain view prompted bigger thoughts of a different life: an easier life, a heterosexual life.

Having a vacation wife is nothing new to me. Long before Will & Grace came on the scene, I’d passed my newlywed status as a getaway gay. For decades now, I’ve been gracefully willing my way into a straight married tourist—“passing” through exotic destinations like a honeymoon-hetero. And throughout all those years and all those vacations, I’ve gone through several wives—Kristie being my most recent. But along with each excursion, I have continued to bring home one consistent souvenir: I like “passing.” The aforementioned married moment is just my latest example.

So while I was being scrubbed and rubbed, polished and pumiced and soaked in everything from mineral baths to mud baths, it got me pondering about my status as a closeted holiday husband, a getaway gay, and what I really like about passing for straight.

Am I ashamed of being gay? I wondered.

Absolutely not.

Then why not correct the attendants?

My deduction: Because occasionally I like having a vacation to normal, of languishing in the majority as opposed to my standard slice of 10 percent. I like being seen another way. Additionally, with my recent vacation “wife”—who is not only beautiful, but the proprietor of what most (real) straight men have aptly dubbed a “rockin bod”—I’ve also discovered that I’m envied by straight men, as opposed to ridiculed. And I really like that!

To add to the prosperity pot (passing-for-a-straight-man-married-to-a-beautiful-woman-possessing-an-enviable-figure), is the gay man/straight man body battle. The gays always win … sort of.

Case in point: Post pamper, as we made our way around the pool for lunch, all eyes were on us. As is standard, I began to transform: To hold my head with the kind of confidence that sharpens my facial features and turns my everyday walk into a swagger. The diverse array of (straight) men strewn around the pool, who under gayer circumstances—like being with my gay friends—might have made fun of me, were now all the underdogs. Why? Because, rockin’-bod-wife aside, as a “straight” man, I too have a rockin’ bod! Whereas if I were on a gay vacation—an Atlantis cruise filled with gym bunnies and body gods, any gay beach in the world (and I’ve been to most)—the same scenario would play out two ways: Me feeling like I shouldn’t eat the entire vacation, or just feeling completely invisible. But instead, in the company of the crowd sunbathing around the luxury spa we were at, I felt like a supermodel. A closeted-gay-pretending-to-be-a-married-straight-man-supermodel, but still, what’s not to love? I went from being invisible in the gay community to being envied in another—while being pampered, to boot!

Recent Shave

Folicle File

 

Always one who has been intertwined with extremely “creative” (OK, really gay) career choices, it never occurred to me to attempt to “pass.” Then I began to travel. With girls. And, presto-chango, like a sweeping spell from the vacation fairies, I am instantly straight in the eyes of those sprawled across lounge chairs or cooing over the dinner tables of desirable destinations. Then, as the vacation unfolds, those little things start to happen: the gravitation toward “tradition” that inhabits everyday life, a life filled with good old-fashioned romance between a man and a woman.

They begin to ask us questions that require answers starting with we. They smile at me and view me with accepted enthusiasm. They allow themselves to talk about children and weddings in a comfortable tone, filled with camaraderie. I confidently smile back. I’m on holiday from my homosexuality. Then those conversations are accessorized with actions. This vacation was no different. At lunch we ordered drinks—I choose a glass of wine, Kristie a beer. When the busboy came with the drinks, guess who got the wine and who got the beer? Then, it was time to pay the bill. Naturally it was presented to me. We giggled again. She paid. But I was still left to confront my question: Why was I so comfortable to hideaway my gay?

It’s an unwritten application, a (mostly) unspoken way of life, and sadly still, the natural order of things, that discrimination happens. Regrettably, it’s around us every day. Be it based on religion, race, sexual preference—the list is worldwide and, unfortunately, endless. And because being gay is among the list of minorities, it has always been my way of life to defend it in one way or another. And except for the occasional vacation, I do. Passionately. But, the more I thought about my secret affection for “passing,” I came to understand that in those particular circumstances, vacation circumstances, it was actually more relaxing to be straight. And, hot wife/best friend aside, I came to realize that even though I was letting people think I was straight, it was easier to do that than repeat the scrutiny I had been subjected to among my peers during gayer vacations. Which is why I stopped taking them.

So, maybe it’s wrong to be a getaway gay—a secret straight, happy to crawl back into the closet for a vacation. Or maybe it’s the ultimate escape?

Maybe pretending is better than being invisible? Maybe I think that my community should be more accepting of men who aren’t 24? Or maybe I’m just bitter? OK, pampered and bitter.

Whatever the reason, I can only simulate straight for so long. Then, inevitably, some hunky spa attendant or hot pool man brings me an icy glass of lemon water, and I get transported back to being an everyday gay. Subsequently, the vacation comes to an end, and I must reconcile with day-to-day accountability. Translation: I get horny.

As I meander further into middle age, I’m still not sure about my gay/straight/work/vacation balance, but I do know this: The vacation wouldn’t feel as satisfying if I didn’t have to get back to the business of being gay. And, although I know it’s wrong to “pass,” still, sometimes it’s nice to escape from the uphill climb toward equality (including within the gay community—think about it) and be pampered with acceptance: a transitory getaway observing life from an envied vantage point—atop the world, with a lovely view. And while the servants coddle me—my masculinity the envy of every straight man—it’s nice to consider a place in the world with my so-called wife.