57. On a certain fiery competition

Or, love propaganda and the politics of desire.

It’s snowing in Brooklyn and I’m late again to my own arbitrary, self-imposed deadline.

It’s that weird time of year when nothing especially seems to matter—a veritable liminal space—and I’ve fallen into a pitfall of non-productivity caused by three pieces of media: Heated Rivalry, The Real Housewives of Potomac, and Dave the Diver. The former two are television series, and the latter is a “cozy” video game first published in 2023; I’ve alternately been swept up by a torrid interracial gay love affair stretching across a decade, by petty squabbles between dueling social scene queens (Karen Huger and Gizelle Bryant), and by diving for sea creatures to turn into sushi.

On the subject of television shows and films prominently featuring non-heterosexual characters, I remember it becoming somewhat controversial in the 2010s for such characters to be played by heterosexual actors. The logic was that queer actors should be given the opportunity to authoritatively portray their own narratives, not too dissimilar from people of color acting in roles specific to their own heritages, because marginalized people by definition face various structural socioeconomic disadvantages that hamper their ability to, put simply, equally exist and succeed. Therefore, agitating for queer characters to be played by queer actors was an attempt to right some historical (and ongoing) wrongs.

Yet sexual orientation is not a phenotype, which is to say that it’s not readily discernible of people who wish to keep theirs discreet, as is their prerogative. This is where the stickiness arises: the labels of invented racial categorization that are clumsily applied to humans by other humans upon first impression are even less capable when it comes to queerness. Thus, the similarities between sexuality and ethnicity end in divergence.

Some proponents argue that the actors who portray queer characters should confirm their own non-heterosexuality under the banner of queer visibility. They proffer that efforts to achieve social equality benefit from there being more people who are loud and proud. This in and of itself isn’t inaccurate; visibility is important insofar as culture is something that is actively shaped, and queer people must be shown to be extant so that our existence isn’t attributed to aberrancy. For this reason, I choose to believe that these agitators are operating in good faith. Their intent is to champion a world wherein queer people are treated as equal. However, pressuring an individual to publicly come out is a violation of their personal agency. For a plethora of reasons, one might want to keep one’s private life, well, private. The ultimate questions to be answered, ergo, are whether 1) the output is good, genuine, accurate, and honest, and 2) the creatives involved will, plainly, support equality.

It’s no big secret that the arts are very, very gay. Still, there’s a (nonsensical) stigma imposed upon queer creatives that preempts or prevents them from coming out, so as to preserve their mass-market appeal. Sex sells, so goes the common refrain, and marketability rests itself upon desire, but it’s about to be 2026 and I’d like to believe that an actor’s sexual orientation wouldn’t affect their commercial ceiling because—let’s face it—laypeople have zero chance with celebrity figures, anyways. Besides, nothing in the world needs to generate billions of dollars in profit. Just admire the art and move on.

I never really felt the desire to come out. It wasn’t something that I needed to be known at work because my personal life had no impact on my career, and also because I feared employment discrimination. Luckily, I’ve never been outed, and anyone who ever learned about it without my involvement wasn’t someone who could or would materially affect my life. Similarly, I didn’t trust my family to not disown me and whatnot upon finding out, and especially regarding them I could control that level of knowledge. The only people who I wanted to know were my closest friends, but I never felt that anybody had a right to know. So, I have some sympathy for those wanting to keep their business to themselves.

When I did finally come out to my parents, it was of my own volition. I chose to wait until I felt that I could afford the gamble, when I knew beyond a doubt that I would be safe and secure regardless of their reactions. Even though I had primed myself for the worst and despite how much I attempted to minimize the effect my parents’ opinions would have on my life, keeping an integral part of myself hidden from my makers was still a mental burden. Thankfully, for the most part, it wasn’t a big affair.

Anyways, I digress. I recently watched The Materialists on a flight to Los Angeles and it’s cuffing season in New York and I resent love propaganda, which is the term I’m employing herein to refer to media about romantic relationships, because I am not in love. My cuticles are peeling and a friend recently told me about being invited to the Fire Island parties where youthful men of East Asian descent are amassed for the fetishistic entertainment of lecherous older White men, and I remember wondering whether I should play that role when I was qualified. Although those doors might lead to a shortcut to other pastures (possibly greener, possibly not), I’m glad that I never did. The politics of desire always weighed too heavily upon me.

I considered re-downloading all of the dating apps until I remembered the last time that I did and ended up trauma dumping onto would-be suitors, all of whom very kindly listened as I explained that I wasn’t likely to be in a serious mood to date because I was trying very hard not to fall apart. I wanted to feel a connection, but I wasn’t ready to be perceived. Love propaganda stirs up memories of spending the holidays with my exes, and it’s not that I want them back but rather that it was nice to have them around.

I think about my mortality all the time. If I died tomorrow, I would feel regret, sure. Regret is a given because there’s so much out there that I want to see and do, but I’m aware of how far I’ve already gone at least in the context of my own narrative. I’ve swum with turtles in Laniakea Beach, hobbled up the steps of Potala Palace, stood on the banks of the Danube, and kissed boys in Central Park. I’ve lived a good life and, for now, I’m still here. So, maybe what’s actually happening is that I’ve been coming to terms with my own mediocrity, that I’m never going to be somebody and leave my mark on the world, that it’s going to have to be enough to be just me, and all of this is said beneath the veneer of insignificance because I don’t think my problems really are that bad at all in the grand scheme of things. Whatever.

Here’s to another year of this, of all of this. My goal for the next twelve months is to finish drafting the screenplay that’s been in my head all year. Happy fucking New Year.

It’s snowing in Brooklyn.