Offered without comment. The thing speaks for itself. This is from an essay that appears today on Gawker, in which a gay male writer recounts his experience at Gay Pride. Excerpts:

He said that he was 28, had just come out of the closet last year, and he enjoyed pissing on guys and hate-fu*king. We were at Barracuda in Chelsea, and after about 30 minutes of talking, he told me that he’d love to fu*k me but he has a boyfriend but could he get my number just in case? Sure.

Riding home with a 23-year-old later, I received a text that read, “Good to meet u rich. let me piss on u sometime :) get off grindr.” I told him, “You can piss on me when you love me,” and also when he’s single. He called me heteronormative. I don’t think he got the Showgirlsreference, so it probably wasn’t a match anyway. Sucks, because he was cute and wore a baseball cap that made him cuter.

Funny how Pride and regret go hand-in-hand.

More:

All kinds of petty revelations. For example, I don’t really want to be pissed on. It’s something I’ve been curious about, but only because other people put it in my head. I have no sex associations with urinals or bathrooms. No seed from my past is flourishing into a pee fetish. But it seems benign enough of an activity to see for myself what it’s all about. It’s like, if other people are into it and you can do it, why not try it? Why not experience the wonderful range of activity that human sexuality, and specifically queerness offers?

I barely got to do that in my former relationship, which ended a little over two months ago. He didn’t want to pee on me and wouldn’t to appease my curiosity and now for the first time in nine and a half years, I can guiltlessly pursue that or whatever or whoever. So far, it’s been fun and exhausting, life-affirming and soul-sucking.

Most consistently, it’s been a source of new ways of feeling the same shame that has manifested itself throughout my sex life, from early on when I had sex with a woman and worried about getting her pregnant and the homosexuality that made my mind wander during sex and my eye wander otherwise. The shame found ways to wind itself through my former relationship, through infidelity and sexual isolation and performance anxiety. It’s so trite to chalk it up to a Catholic upbringing, but I can’t help wondering if I’m addicted to sin or something like that.

Intellectually, I am proud to be gay. I don’t need a weekend for it, but I’ll take one to be extra gay because that’s how much I love it. I wonder what this persistence of shame means about me spiritually and emotionally. I experienced so much of it last weekend, between and during fantastic times, these wholly positive social interactions with one great, beautiful, friendly person after the next. My gayness is haunted.

Read the whole thing.  He ends up deciding that he might like to engage in an orgy in which fellow gay men have sex with lesbians, because that seems like the most transgressive thing he can do.

Who lives this way? Damn.

UPDATE: Interesting stuff going on in the comments section of that post. For example:

I just hope no one stumbles across your article and assumes this is normal behavior for gay men. You are more of a child who never really grew up, or a teenager who never learned to control their hormones. Guys like you, seriously, are the reason WE will never be taken seriously by the voting majority. Guys like you, are the reason I am not “allowed” to marry someone of my own gender. Guys like you make it difficult to hold my head up and be proud, as a gay man struggling for equality.

That being said, enjoy your juvenile existence while you still have it. It’s not my place to say your choices are the wrong ones or the right ones. My place is to say that you make it so much more difficult for the rest of us who just want to be seen as equals with everyone else.

The author turns around and calls this commenter a self-hating gay.

UPDATE.2: From an essay last year by Thomas Rogers, a Salon editor, about an elite gay Manhattan party he went to:

I remember the exact moment I realized it was time to leave the sex party and go home. It was 7:30 in the morning, and I was standing in front of a bunch of cots filled with piles of naked men. A man dressed in a leather jacket emblazoned with the words “human urinal” was next to me, a funnel strapped to his face. And as I stood there contemplating the circumstances that had led me to this place, a man wearing nothing but a harness and underwear staggered down the hallway and accidentally pressed up against me. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed to his friend, as his wet skin rubbed up against my arm. “Some guy must have pissed ALL OVER my shoulder!”

I had spent the last six hours at the Black Party, a giant gay event that takes place every year at Roseland Ballroom in Manhattan. Every March, thousands of shirtless men cram into the large concert venue in midtown to dance to world-famous house DJs, do lots of drugs and, once 3 a.m. rolls around, have public sex in various parts of the building. For three decades, the party has been a raunchy high point of the gay calendar in New York, and a throwback to the most hedonistic aspects of pre-AIDS gay culture. (This year’s party will take place on Saturday, March 19.)

I had come here to confirm several of my long-cherished beliefs about sex and gayness: that sex in all of its forms was awesome, that gay men’s permissive attitudes toward it were much saner than the straight community’s, and that events like this one were a healthy celebration of the most transgressive elements of gay life that had preceded me. But as the night progressed, my attitude went from excitement to discomfort to utter revulsion — and I began to wonder, did I even belong here?

More:

This was what I’d come for: a bacchanal of shamelessness and free sexual expression. It embodied the radical gay politics I thought were lacking in my generation of gay men, so concerned with marriage and adoption and fitting in. But now that I was seeing it firsthand, I found myself strangely disconcerted.

Well, yeah. Read the essay if you have a strong stomach, and take in his description of the things he saw. But he cannot bring himself to condemn it, only say that it’s not for him:

That doesn’t mean that men won’t or shouldn’t keep having sex in dark rooms or on pool tables in front of large crowds, but it means that, as the march toward the mainstream continues, it’ll probably become increasingly uncommon. And it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful — over the last few decades, those hordes of kinky gay men paved the way for my sexual freedom. I like that the Black Party exists. I like that it makes people uncomfortable. And I never want to go there again.

Meanwhile, in Kenya, the hetero “funga” culture is rocking and rolling, AIDS be damned. The NYT observer who writes about it calls it “female empowerment.” Naturally.