I think I’ve finally figured out what bugs me about this whole Volokh situation, or more precisely what bugs him.
He goes to great lengths in his original post to couch accusations of gays evangelizing the straights as “Well, gay people obviously like gay sex, and if you like gay sex, why wouldn’t you want others to try what you enjoy and enjoy it also?” In short, why WOULDN’T you convert somebody to something you think is so awesome?
And it all sounds very reasonable and normal and really, in comparison to some of the freaks on Volokh’s side of the political fence, almost tolerant for a minute. Until you realize it’s built around the central conceit that ALL GAY PEOPLE THINK ABOUT GAY SEX AS MUCH AS RIGHT WING STRAIGHT PEOPLE DO.
Volokh’s post presumes the chief topic of conversation among gay people and their straight or gay or bisexual friends is sexual intercourse. That their lives are so consumed with having the gay gay gay mansexxorz all day long that when they get together for their extremely homosexual dinner parties or gaybar crawls, all they can talk about is the amazing anal action. And if they’re in a room with some straight (or bisexual) people, hell, why would you talk about boring-ass shit like your job or your friends or your house or the stupid thing your pet did when you can tell them about the wonderment that is making love to another person of THE SAME GENDER.
I mean, if you did something other than sex, that would be almost like being a person, wouldn’t it? That would be, to quote a button I bought ten years ago in college, having a life, not a lifestyle. And that’s what people like Volokh don’t ever seem to acknowledge. To them the sum total of being gay is having gay sex. Being human doesn’t seem to enter into the equation.
And on a personal note, dude, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t discuss my sex life with ANYBODY besides my husband. I don’t tell people which positions and settings I enjoy, when and where I’m most comfortable, what kinds of toys, games, paint, feathers, men, women, inflatable farm animals, vegetables or minerals may or may not be involved. If I enjoy something, you know who knows about it? Me. My husband. I don’t go out and tell my friends, “I’m just telling you this out of the kindness of my heart, but you’ve simply GOT to let him do you naked on the hardwood in front of a roaring fire. And here’s how he should move his tongue.” Sex is not a restaurant. I don’t give my friends reviews.
Why not? Because we’re grown-ups, that’s why. We have jobs and lives and families that need us and consume us and drive us crazy, we have books we’ve read and movies we’ve seen and home renovations we’ve gotten ourselves into before realizing what they would entail, we’ve got traffic tickets and baseball teams to bitch about, we’ve got neighbors to gossip about and baby pictures to coo over and generally all manner of stuff to get to during our brief interludes of actually enjoying one another’s company on a late summer evening. We’ve got tons of other things on our minds besides sex, and that goes for all my friends, gay and straight, bi and open and exclusive and every flavor of the sexual rainbow.
We have lives, not lifestyles. Would that Eugene Volokh and his Religious Right allies had the same.