Our big gay family

I’m shocked to discover that traveling with gay men is much like traveling with a traditional modern family. There’s the mom, eldest daughter, middle daughter, youngest daughter, and of course the cousin that’s always over for dinner.

The eldest sister is Amir. He’s got the body everyone wants. He’s got the cute boyfriend that everybody wants. He’s got the lips everyone wants to kiss. He’s got the car everyone wants to be ride in. But his hair ain’t real — not with those extreme highlights and extensions. Somehow, he doesn’t seem to know how beautiful he is and probably sees himself as less than perfect. He can communicate with everyone and anyone because the dude knows like four languages and he’s the first one you notice in our family because he’s also one of the tallest. You don’t want to fuck with him either. Just by looking at you he can make you cry or run away. It’s ironic too that his name means first-born because he will always be our oldest sister.

Then there’s Justice. He believes himself to be an only child even though he’s the only adopted one. He’s the fun trendy one everyone wants to be around. He’s got more energy than a flock of cheerleaders and more talent for sports than anyone ought to have. He’s a jock in every sense of the word, he’s good at every sport he gets involved with but somehow manages not to rub in the fact that we all suck in comparison. He’s ghetto fabulous and constantly makes us laugh. We love Justice, he’s the center of universe to us so logically, it makes sense that he’s the middle sister.

There’s Brock, the cousin. He’s in the military, tough, and angry (don’t ignore his bleeding head, you’ll regret it later). He’s constantly driving to the ends of the Earth for us ‘cause he lives like nowhere near anything. He’s got the jeep you can break into with a pair of scissors and the fact that no one does speaks volumes to how cool he is. He can fix anything if given the right tools. He can fix anything from a squeaky car to an armored battle tank. Just don’t forget his name, if you forget and ask him more than four times in a night, he’ll never let it go.

Then there’s me. I ask if everyone is okay, I make sure everyone feels welcome and invited. It’s for this reason that I seem so popular, it’s my empathy that lets me notice everyone’s mood and state of mind so I can deal with them. I’m the responsible one of the group even if I don’t see myself as that way, ‘cause that’s like so domesticated and I don’t want to be no tied down bitch-whipped chicken head. I’m the one who checks to make sure all the doors are locked but I’m always looking for new things to do and exploring things outside my universe. I’m crafty and well connected. I’m the mom; and I hate that. I completely despise it — I want to be cool. I want to be the fierce, pregnant, out of wedlock teenage Latina mom who insists on having my baby alone. Fuck the father, I’m pretty sure he’d be gone if he knew I was rock’n jelly. Besides, I like being a whore every now and then dancing at the Pussycat club.

Oh, and when we travel, don’t use my loofa. I hate that. I brought my own fuck’n shampoo, my own goddamned body wash; I even brought extra pillows and a comforter just in case anyone needed them, which they did. I don’t even use a pillow at home. I don’t move in my sleep, I stay on my side of the bed because I’m used to waiting for my baby’s daddy to join me at night, knowing full well that he’s never coming home since he left me for a younger version of myself. In the morning I wake up before everyone else so I can have some quiet time alone with my homemade buttermilk cornbread muffins I stole yesterday from autie Cocos.