By Scott King

Photo: Shutterstock.com

Spectacles testicles wallet watch. And what a spectacle it is, to watch. I’m talking about DragonCon, of course. To what did you think I was referring?

DragonCon is Atlanta’s annual Fantasy Camp Gamer Convention. Obviously, I don’t know what the terminology is, but it’s a whole bundle of fun. And it is wicked queeah  (that’s how they pronounce LGBT in Maine, the home of Stephen King). Each year, thousands of beautiful nerds and escapists escape to Atlanta for Labor Day weekend, and cohabitate with Black Gay Pride and the first Chick-fil-A sponsored SEC game of the season.

It is something to behold. Speaking of which:

“My own suspicion is that the universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we CAN suppose.”

– J.B.S. Haldane, 1928

Ain’t that the truth.

This one time at band camp, I was crossing the crosswalk, uptown. This cute little dude with a pizza box was crossing with me and was all eye contact and empathy. We chatted about things and about the gamer convention he was attending and whether or not I was attending as well. I confirmed that, no, I was just entering the same bougie hotel he was in order to hook up with a dude. Would he want to join us? Have some fun?

Ummmmm, no thanks. He looked very confused. Like he’d never been informed about how the big bad world works sometimes. The next seven stories of elevator silence were cute. He couldn’t possibly have scurried out of that elevator faster. Poor little dude. I hope he enjoyed his pizza.

He’s in the minority, though. Most years, when I check out DragonCon, with a ticket or without, the cisgendered straight men are all about the gaymers, the LGBT, and the open-ended ambiguity. Not to mention the exhibitionism. Man cannot live on Instagram alone. A decent portion of the Maids seem more into each other than Brave Sir Robin, so the dewds stand and pose.

It’s not queerbait. It’s a fish food banquet. It is ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, served in red solo cups. Just please no tighty-whities.

Love is love, regardless of gender or galaxy intrigue. So how did this ephemeral utopia come to be? I can only imagine that the social politics of these gatherings back in the 20th century were libertarian at best.

Well, think about it. A hero is a lone wolf. Ladies only serve to distract him. Fellow men are only there to be expedient to the plot. The hero’s real soulmate is his nemesis. The villain, all smoldering anticipation and naughty, naughty thoughts, is his spiritual muse and obsession. It’s kinda gay.

Come over to the dark side. I am your father. Quien es tu papi?

Beauty shines in the darkness, though. I took a boyfriend from out of town to DragonCon once. At first, he was like I’ll be going back to Cali, Cali. But then he realized it was something different. In Atlanta, believe it or not, not everyone is a celebrity. So he and I stood out, mostly due to a lack of competition. The girls in their faery wings picked up on us. They were like are you guys together? We were like yeah. If we buy you a drink, will you make out? We were like yeah. A bunch of straight guys in monkshoods came over to us and said, “You guys are SO BEAUTIFUL.” My spine has never tingled so hard.

The next day, me and my boo went down to St. Simons Island, for a little beach time and a respite from this urban life of decay. We were with a bunch of gays at the haus; then we went to the beach. Then we went to the dock. Me and my man were holding hands and walking arm-in-arm. People would not stop fucking staring. It was like we were superheroes or something.

Freakiness is relative. The truth is out there. Live long and prosper.

Can I get a pic?

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