This Is Us
Too Dark to Be Seen
At a gay club in the ’90s, I compete for attention with lighter-skinned men — and confront years of internalized racism
My erection is pressing against the zip fly of my jeans. They’re JNCO jeans. Everybody’s wearing them but, if I’m honest, I think they look silly. They have wide, flared legs — you know, for dancing. The legs are so wide they cover your shoes, and God help you if it rains. When the hems get wet, those jeans get all soggy and heavy and, before you know it, you’re drenched from the calf down.
I can’t afford real JNCOs. I just bought a pair of big jeans at a thrift store and strapped rubber bands around my groin to make the legs flare. When I go out on the dance floor to throw shapes, no one is the wiser.
Right now, I can tell my jeans are fake because my erection is pressing against the denim between those two rubber bands. The cocaine I’m on dispatches my shame as I stand here, watching.
I’ve followed my friend, Michael, and his boyfriend, Phil, out to the parking lot of the club. They’re having sex in the backseat of a car like two teenagers. I try to keep a safe distance as I watch them make out, but it doesn’t matter. Their eyes are closed. Their faces are obscured by each other’s bodies and…
