I laughed, and then went back to drinking and talking to Tyler. The yuppie stared at me and then sprinted down the street his friend chased after him. I stood up and punched the yuppie in the stomach. The yuppie’s comment awakened all the anger past old money gays left me with after they ignored my calls. Like him, I wore an old sweater and cut-offs. He pointed at Tyler’s sweater (his girlfriend’s dirty UPenn sweater) and cut-offs. “It’s really obvious you don’t go to UPenn,” one of the yuppies said. But like a circle jerk, the mirage didn’t last long. Dirty blondes with buzz cuts and matching cardigans, they were a mirage, my fantasy come to life. In the midst of my tunnel vision, I saw two yuppie boys standing in front of me. Outside I drank beer till I was plastered. I was too nervous to talk to strangers, so I sat on a bench outside with Tyler, who wanted to escape the sound of Gotye. A few dudes glanced at my cut off short-shorts with I-want-to-fuck-you-eyes, but I was only sort-of drunk. On my first night there, Tyler’s girlfriend took us to the Blarney Stone - the type of bar where frat boys wear button shirts and the “females” wear Forever 21 cocktail dresses. With this intention, I visited Philadelphia to see my middle school best friend Tyler, who dates a UPenn girl. By the end of my freshmen year of college, I was willing to suck any Ivy League legacy kid’s cock. Like the Little Mermaid, I would do anything to join their world and watch their lives unfold. Rejection increased my desire for a gay American Aristocrat. No matter how many places published my writing, no matter how much money I made, I was nothing more than a queen to have sex with, to old money gays. I refused to pretend that I read Marco Roth I wanted boys to accept me for who I was: a proud and out, sheer shirt wearing, Courtney Love quoting homosexual. Class forces old money queers to look straight: they will only marry beards or butt-boys who read n+1. I was just a first generation American with a 560 on the math section of the SAT and a tendency to wear fishnet stockings: to me old money fags were exotic and exciting, the pinnacle of American society - everything I wasn’t.Īfter a one-night stand with Harvard Boy (a Wall Street banker’s closeted homosexual son) my first semester of college, I realized my dream was just a fantasy.
My dream had nothing to do with a desire for a rich or intelligent husband my parents’ pet stores provided me with an extravagant new money upbringing, and many heirs lack common sense. When most teenagers dreamed of marrying a CW television star, I dreamed of marrying an old money gentleman.