But that was my wedding. I’m talking about marriage. Or trying to. After six years of being together, six weeks of matrimonial experience seems paltry. I know that everything seems like it did before, but safer. We can fight without fear of breaking up, share our deepest secrets with confidence they won’t used in malice. If the worst happens, I’ll be lucky enough to visit my husband in the hospital. There’s two parts of that sentence that wouldn’t be possible five years ago.
I’ve actually felt that the most aggressively political thing we could do as married men is not change a damn thing about how we live. If Maggie Gallagher is already shitting her pants at our new life, the spectre of those same couples proving that “perverts” can have marriages should have her growing gills and returning to the ocean.
So that’s why we chose Buenos Aires for our honeymoon. BA is so large and varied that everyone fits in. A shrewd tourists can experience a dozen different versions of everyday life there in less than a week. A married couple eating vegetarian Chinese food on a rainy day. A married couple buying jeans in Palermo. A married couple packed ass to ankles in a sweaty Subte car, holding hands and staring at the bulging Argentinian milanesa that some gym-bound straphanger has dangling three inches from our faces.
Though Bruce Vilanch once said that the grooves dug into Brazilian white sand beaches come from the dragging penises of their attendees, some cursory Grindr research indicated that the Portenos are hardly lacking. To merely call Buenos Aires men “beautiful” is like saying Edward Snowden “on vacation.” The only fear I’ve felt about being married came when these men would walk by our outdoor cafe tables and we’d crane our necks to watch, and sometimes chat about the merchandise over our third or ninth glass of red wine.
I didn’t fear temptation – there are a lot of beautiful boys in this world, but none are Michael. No past or future connection, however its tenor, can shake that. My fear was of betraying the cause. That every time we broke the constraints of “traditional marriage,” a gay marriage policeman will take give me a demerit. Three demerits and I earn another Zack Ford treatment. Six and I’m barred from Netroots Nation. Ten demerits — that’s like three bar makeouts — and the HRC backs a Tea Party candidate.
Time and again, though, I learn that most folks don’t care.