Think Drink!

When drinking in gay life and mixing with men, is the glass half-empty or half-full?

By J. Corbett Holmes

“Hi everyone. M-M-M-My name is Corbett,” I announce into the room of overly-caffeinated strangers.

“Hi Corbett,” the room responds in established unison.

“ I-I-I-I’m here ... ”

I take a sip of water and nervously begin again.

“Well, I’m here b-b-b-because I’m social!”

Blank stares dowse my body like somebody has just thrown a drink on me.

If Paris can do jail time, I think to myself, I can do this. I keep going.

“I haven’t crashed my car or been arrested for a DWI. I haven’t woken up in a pool of my own vomit. OK, maybe once or twice in college.”

Nobody laughs.

“I rarely drink alone. I don’t get wasted every time I drink. I never even think about drinking except when I have to order one. In fact, I can go weeks without one—as long as I’m not doing anything social.”

More blank stares.

“But because I’m single, I eventually get bored or lonely, and I want to be with my peeps, which ultimately leads to drinking. Because, well, I’m a socially active gay man!”

There is absolute silence in the room. You could hear a cocktail stir drop. Why? Because instead of being out “on the town,” I’m alone, imagining all of it as I brush my teeth before going to bed early—on a Saturday night! And because I’ve never attended an AA meeting, I start to laugh (to myself) and I want to tell my friends, which makes me think about being social, which makes me think about drinking! And I’m back to the source of my scenario: I want to be social, but I’m tired of drinking.

From a very early age, alcohol was always something I saw as social—to be mixed in with friendship or sipped during a special occasion. The first time I recall tasting alcohol I was 11. I’d just finished mowing the massive lawn around our house and the sweltering summer heat left me parched. Taking pity on me (and probably feeling a little guilty for making me mow the entire lawn), my father offered me a sip of the icy beer he’d been drinking. I can still remember how the frothy bite coated my throat. Immediately invigorated, I took another gulp—enjoying the masculine moment of sharing a beer with my dad.

As a teenager, whenever my parents would entertain, my brother and I made a hobby of stealing drinks from their cocktail parties. Summer was easiest. The lush hydrangea bushes in our yard offered the perfect hiding place for sipping a stolen Tom Collins or a partially consumed Old Fashion. As the buzz set in, I would languidly pretend I was one of the elegant adults that frequented my parent’s backyard bashes—someone in “high” social standing.

With age, (happily) my social calendar grew—and so did the occasions to drink: a celebratory glass of wine at lunch, a cocktail with friends after work for happy hour, a bloody mary or a mimosa at brunch on Sunday and—the biggest reason of all—the bars where most of the boys went. And drank! A lot! Even the benefit fundraisers I would attend touted an open bar as something enticing—adding merit to the cost of the ticket (where the VIP room became filled with Very Intoxicated People.) Weddings, Gay Pride, Halloween, New Year’s Eve, the endless stream of holiday gatherings and summer pool parties—all a sloshfest. For years, the majority of my social situations were blended with booze.

By now you’re probably thinking one of two things: A) I’m a raging alcoholic or B) Why the f--k just not drink?!? Those of you reading this who belong to AA know what a shift in personal protocol it is to just not drink. Ever. But after another gathering with friends, the next morning, between glass after glass of water and a fist full of Tylenol, I began to wonder.

Was I an alcoholic? Should I consider a flight up the 12 steps? No. Because sometimes weeks go by and the thought of drinking remains as absent as a blackout. But as I age, my desire (not to mention my tolerance) to drink has depleted. Unfortunately, my desire for social interaction has not. And although I am far from the tabloid antics of Paris and Lindsay—blackouts and DWIs–I feel worn down by the social infusion of hooch. So I decided to have my own intervention.

Several weeks of self-induced detox later, on a gloomy Saturday morning, as I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard, the street felt deserted. It’s not that early, I thought. Where is everybody? Several blocks later as I pulled up to a stoplight, I discovered a gaggle of obviously gay men, smoking cigarettes and guzzling coffee. They were on their way to an AA meeting down the stree (yes, I know where they have their meetings). While I waited for the light to change, my eyes locked with a bearded hipster crossing in front of my truck. The expression on his face seemed to say, “What are you doing up at this hour?” Unbeknownst to him, even though I wasn’t attending “a meeting,” we’d both made the choice to avoid alcohol. But there was just one problem (for me): His social support had also relinquished alcohol; mine had not. Why? Because like me, most of them are single. And when you’re gay and single, you rely on social outlets for connection. Yet many of those social outlets include drinking.

After a childhood of often not fitting in, once we become adults, when we join our contemporaries in our limited social venues, if everyone is drinking, the desire to assimilate seems almost obligatory. And if you decide not to, your status is literally straight while everyone else is gaily guzzling.

When you’re gay and single, social situations represent hope. Why? Because said situations offer the possibility (I think—for most) of a romantic interlude and the elimination of single status—whether it’s Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now. Can you be in “it” devoid of drinking? Of course. But to be social is to understand and assimilate into “the mix.”

As Paris, Lindsay or Nicole can testify, drinking is something (gay or straight) society regards as elegant, glamorous, sophisticated and most definitely social. Until you crash the car or get a DWI or go to jail or spend the next day hung over or you join AA or—like me—you just get tired of the feeling. Even if it means you make less social appearances—let’s see what Lindsay decides to do.

Sometimes, to me, being gay means there is vast disproportion between what you know about yourself and what the world considers standard practice. Maybe not drinking with my peeps is another form of the same thing?

So now that you gulped down my look into the liquor cabinet, the bigger question is: With the already limited venues available to gay men, if you choose not to drink, is the glass half empty or half full?

For your shaving graces, e-mail me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.

illustration by Robert Best