Looking back, paving the way forward

Hello beautiful people. This is my second attempt this morning to write my column. I just spent the past hour writing about something that has been on my mind lately. It was, to be honest, actually really good, but I deleted the entire thing. On purpose.

I am gonna need a few people to die before I can tell that story in an honest and open way.

So instead, I thought I would titillate you with a story of drag in the olden days  way back when I was a twink, even before the use of the word “twink.” Back then young guys were called “chicken,” and the older guys that stalked the young guys were called “chicken hawks.” Now it’s all “twunks” and “zaddies,” and I am always confused.

Anywho, when I was just a young warthog — I mean, chicken — I was the head of a gay and lesbian youth group. Most of us were too young to get into any of the clubs. Back then they didn’t have 18 and up nights at any of the clubs on The Strip, so we would all meet up at Hunky’s to hang out. Sometimes we would cruise around Reverchon Park or White Rock Lake, but we mostly went to parties at one of our houses or apartments.

If someone said that their parents were gonna be away, we would inevitably end up at their place, usually for the weekend. We would drink Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers or Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine. We felt bougie as fuck, but we were also broke as fuck. We lived off off sandwiches and chips.

At this one particular “gathering” of the baby gays, I decided to show up in drag. The party was at the home of the parents of this big-tittied, beautiful lesbian girl named Crystal, way out on the other side of Allen. (Back then, there really wasn’t as much development north of 635.)

For the record, at that time I had done drag maybe eight times, and I was pretty horrible — huge-ass eyebrows, no pads, no lashes. Just a long-haired, nelly boy with a little bit of make-up on. I honestly looked more like a girl then than I ever did once my drag got good.

My friend Lee and a couple of other li’l homos thought it would be funny to stop at a grocery store in Allen to buy some chips and other miscellaneous junk foods. I thought it would be funny to get a picture of me shopping for tampons and douches. Once again, remember: This was back when you had to take a photo with an actual camera, then get the film developed and hope that your pic turned out.

We walk into, well, in my mind it was a Piggly Wiggly, but it was probably a Minyard‘s or Brookshires, whatever grocery store they had in small towns back then. And it went exactly as you are thinking it went. Cue the record scratch, music stop. All heads turn our way.

Looking back now I realize what we must have looked like:

The three boys were wearing cutoff Daisy Duke short shorts, white muscle shirts (with little to no muscles), black army boots that went up to mid-calf, a long sleeve flannel shirt tied around their waist and, of course, their Pride rings necklace.

I was wearing black lace bell bottoms with a matching bell sleeve shirt, a light mug and bone straight hair parted on the side that hit a little below my shoulders. Oh, and big, neon yellow daisy-shaped earrings that made no sense then or now and hideous platform shoes.

No, it was not the ’70s; it was the ’90s. We were the epitome of out, loud and proud homosexuals, and we were soaking it all in.

One lady even had her mouth open from a literal jaw drop.

I did a full photoshoot in front of the douches then had the nerve to ask an employee if this brand of tampons were any good. She only said, “They work!” as she all but ran from us.

We, of course, went to the only guy working the check out. He was cute, maybe 17. His name was Brad and he had three zits on his left cheek that he tried to hide with his hair. You could tell we made him nervous. Then when he gave me my change for the chips, dips and small box of tampons, he scribbled his number on my receipt. A month later, Brad was my boyfriend.

We show up to the party with a great story and a camera full of awful photos. That party lasted the entire weekend. We’d sleep most of the day. We’d watch movies. We’d couple up and hook up for a few hours. I ended up messing around with Crystal’s best friend, Brian, on the floor next to Crystal’s bed while she pretended to sleep. She later told us that she was awake the entire time but was so happy that Brian was finally “gettin’ some” that she just kept quiet. She was a good friend.

I love having these stupid stories from when I was a dragling. I love remembering the good times with great friends. But then, inevitably, you start to think about what has happened to those kids from back then: Brian was shot and killed by a carjacking, thieving piece of shit about a year after that party. He had gone to Austin for a Splash weekend getaway and never made it home. Crystal, his best friend since they were in elementary school, was never the same after that.

The point of the youth group was to introduce you to others like yourself, and our group — GLYA (Gay and Lesbian Young Adults) — did just that. It introduced me to so many great people, many of whom I am still friends with today.

To a young gay person that always felt alone, a group like that could save your life. G.L.Y.A. did that for me and so many others.

I hope you all have great memories of when you first found your tribe. I definitely do. If you still haven’t found your cabal, it’s coming. Be patient and be open to opportunities for friendships that maybe are a little bit odd.

You were born to stand out. Being gay means, you are part of a group of people who have had to hide their true selves for so much of human history. Now is your time to live. So live loud and proud for every gay person that couldn’t, yesterday or 100 years ago. Let’s normalize “us” and make it even easier for the next generation.

Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova