December 5, 2002

After trying in vain for two days to summon the mental focus required to blog about the cheerleading clinic, I’ve come to the realization that I am simply mentally unfocused. Perhaps I require mental contact lenses. Or mental bifocals.

I was accompanied to the cheerleading clinic by my staunch and loyal friend D.R., who claimed he was coming along for moral support but whom I suspect to have joined me simply to see the cute guys jumping around in athletic shorts.

I was actually late meeting him because I couldn’t decide whether to bring my regular athletic shorts or my athletic shorts that are way too short and tight. In the end I decided to bring both and wait and see what seemed most appropriate. When I got there it very quickly became clear that the too short, too tight shorts were the way to go.

So of course I had left both pairs at home and had to do the whole thing in jeans. It was mortifying and I wanted to die.

Plus, I have really cute legs, and I had been counting on them to give me an edge.

One very fascinating thing was how multiethnic the squad and squad hopefuls were. Of about thirty people in the room, exactly five were white. Given that the gay community tends to draw racial lines very strongly, this was both surprising and heartwarming.

Also heartwarming was the fact that these were the queeniest queens ever to queen their way down the pike.

Now, nobody who spends more than three seconds in my company can say that I am in any way a paragon of masculinity. But next to some of these guys, I was positively Schwarzenegger-esque. My gay mentor, the first person I came out to and the guy who helped me be okay with everything, was also incredibly queeny, and so in a very real and very comforting way, this felt like home.

I really don’t understand it at all. Given the fact that I hate everyone, you’d think that cheerleading was the very last thing on earth I would enjoy doing. But there I was, clapping and jumping and shouting “Go, New York, let’s go!” and “New York, let’s hear it! Yell go, fight, win!” and having the time of my life. It could be a Molière play: The Misanthrope Cheerleader.

Of course, since I am insanely competitive, I spent the entire time with a look of grim concentration on my face, hoping that my cohorts would trip or fall while I got everything right. Every once in a while I would remember that I was supposed to be cheering, and I would grin like a madman for a minute or two, and then I would go back to wishing my competitors ill.

The one thing that makes me sad is that this is clearly not going to be the place where I meet my soul mate.

They’re bottoms, to a man.