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“I am out of the closet and it is exhilarating!!!” – a 40-yr old parade participant, mother of two, at the Montreal Pride Parade. She had come out the week prior.

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Worldwide, homosexuals are leaping out of the closet with gay abandon, pun intended. A 27-nation 2021 Ipsos-Mori Survey of the LGBT community has found that in the west, where I live, 70% of respondents said that, not only do they have at least one LGBTQ relative, but that they are fine with it.

2500 years back, homosexuality was considered a normal sexual orientation. In ancient Greece, homosexuality was built into the social fabric itself, as a part of growing up.

In the pre-Christian world, men fucking other men was du jour. Philosophers of the day, Aristotle and Socrates, waxed eloquent on how the human anatomy had placed the anus in just right level and orientation to be shtupped by the erect penis of another man, so convenient that even the anal passage had the same angle of inclination to the horizontal as a fully erect penis.  Therefore they surmised that, we were all meant to be fucked up our asses. I can see Euclid exclaiming, ‘QED!’

Homosexuality even had a hybrid – pedarasty, the sexual union of an adult male and a preteen(tween) boy. That would be pedophilia and would rightfully earn a man a lengthy jail sentence today.

In Ancient Greece, a man’s sexual development went through pre-ordained phases. Pedarasty preceded heterosexuality. Gay sex was boot camp before a man stepped into marriage to a woman. No one questioned the morality of homosexuality. It was understood that if you were a teenaged boy, you stood a good chance of being shtupped up your ass, until you grew into adulthood, when it would be your turn to do the shtupping.

When you finally got married, homosexual sex had to stop and you discovered pussies. Life was exciting, wannit?

Speaking of my own land of birth, India, centuries back, Indian society did not threaten eternal damnation on LGBTs at all. In fact, homosexuality was woven into the Indian social fabric for centuries. The earliest recorded practice of homosexual sex in India is documented in, you guessed it, the c300AD tome, Kama Sutra. Auparishtaka (Oral Sex) between men is mentioned, in a non-judgemental tone. Erotic sculptures depicting gay and lesbian sex adorn the walls of the c800AD Khajuraho temple complex in the province of Madhya Pradesh.

Yeah, men have been shtupping each other for a long long time. Then came Christianity and suddenly homosexuality turned from being du jour to de l’enfer, ie: something abnormal, shameful, corrupting and evil. But then, the definition of normality has been in a perpetual flux ever since we humans have come into being and so have the perceptions of sexuality.

Is homosexuality on the rise? Nope, it has always been there. It’s just that the world is gradually getting more and more comfortable with it.

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It was August, 2015.

I had just returned from an overnight visit to Tadoussac, a village like hundreds of others dotting the Quebec countryside.

There must be a “Quebec Village Template”, they all look so alike. A church spire towering over the main square, that has a Couche Tard with its gas station, a Subway and a tiny version of an IGA(grocery). Demographics almost exclusively white and deeply conservative. Average age around 55-60. Population 800-900. If you are a teen, it is understood you’ll marry your high school sweetheart and work at the lumberyard or your father-in-law’s farm.

There must be a village jester but I haven’t seen one yet.

The joint leaps out of a picture postcard, literally. Neat. Subdued. Not concerned with what’s going on in the outside world. You can count the number of English speakers on the fingers of your left hand. If you are any other color than white, I’d call it this way…..they are very hospitable, once they are satisfied you’re only visiting and don’t plan to settle there.

They aren’t racist. They are a closed community, like a more worldly version of the Amish. They shun inter-racial relationships, not in the hateful, white-supremacist manner that one finds across the border, but simply because they are comfortable among their own, afraid that letting in outsiders will dilute their way of life. Don’t we all feel similarly?

Tadoussac is where the Saguenay River flows into the St. Lawrence River, an estuary that in winter looks like a Norwegian fjord.

On the other side is raw untamed wilderness, a thousand miles of it.

During the three precious summer months, Tadoussac transforms into a bustling tourist town, hosting whale-watching cruises. Yep, If you want to get up close with those magnificent creatures, Tadoussac is ground zero.

Come October, it goes dead once again.

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Now let’s look at the other universe 320 miles south – Montreal, liberal melting pot, home to 4.3 million souls, a full 40% of whom are visible minorities.

The annual Montreal Pride Parade is Montreal’s signature event, a stark reminder of the contrast between the progressive urban Canada and conservative rural Canada.

The parade itself was a grand finale to a weeklong collection of picnics, fireworks and music festivals that had been happening simultaneously all over Montreal’s theater district, otherwise known as the ‘Quartier des Spectacles‘, with Montreal’s gay village next to it.

I was not the only straight guy doing the parade. There were many, even families with little kids clapping their hands and running into the crowds of dancers and dancing along with them.

I shook hands with a grinning Justin Trudeau, the leader of Canada’s Liberal Party, who had a rainbow painted on his cheek. He had the Montreal mayor Denis Coderre, the Quebec Premier Phillippe Couillard and Thomas Mulcair, the NDP chief, all walking side by side, waving rainbow flags. In six weeks, Trudeau would win the Prime Ministership with a majority.

All those big shots seemed like they were having a blast. Except for constables lining the sidewalks preventing the crowds from spilling into the parade, there were no grim-faced men in dark suits, aviator glasses, wires sticking from ears anywhere to be seen. In Ottawa, the Tory leader and PM, Stephen Harper, had joined a parallel celebration.

It was a display of a vibrant multicultural oasis of amity celebrating its openness, telling the world that in order to be a good human being, it is not necessary to be straight.

You rub elbows with the leather daddies, bull dykes, twinks, alternaqueers, trannies, drag queens, fem boys, circuit boys and all the other gay archetypes. It was like a giant celebration of living somewhere over the rainbow. It was Mardi Gras, Halloween, Christmas and Diwali – all rolled into one.

This is the one moment of the year when gays feel legit – accepted. It is an occasion when straight folks like me come out and lend our support, to these quaint and friendly human beings who resemble us but are fundamentally different in a way we don’t fully understand.

I was struck by how much I had changed, from the man I was in India two decades back. Back then in 1990s India, I would have recoiled at the thought of going to an LGBT event, if there was one at all.

And now? Now there is a conflict within Indian society, between the saffron-clad guardians of the Hindu faith and the urban life, where you have the Delhi Queer Parade, Kolkata Rainbow Walk, Bengaluru Namma Parade and Queer Azadi Mumbai. There is even the Awadh Queer Pride, thumbing its nose at conformity at Awadh, the heart of Hindudom.

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“You don’t realize it but your being here, lustily cheering, is so important to us,” said a middle-aged, gaudily clothed, gay woman whom others might have called a ‘dyke’.

I was swigging from a water bottle filled with red wine in it – she held out her hand and I gave it to her. She promptly downed a generous amount, leaving some of her lipstick on the snout. I rubbed it off with my kerchief and took a swig myself – solidarity (ugh).

“Are you are a transsexual?” I asked her, curiosity engulfing me.

“You mean a tranny? No, I don’t have a cock – at least not yet.” Trepidation made me not want to know what that ‘not yet’ bit meant. Anyway, by then she had moved on.

There was a gaunt man in high heels, standing right next to me, blowing kisses at the dancers. Probably in his early 40s, he seemed friendly enough and I decided to strike up a conversation with him.

“How did all this begin?” I said to Mr. High Heels after a while. I should have been a reporter.

“Oh, I’m from New York. There are many of us New Yorkers here. The Montreal Gay Pride Week is to us gays what the Haj is to Muslims.” He grinned.

I tried to imagine Mr. High Heels in Mecca and chuckled inwardly. Allah-o-Akbar, may it happen, like in the next ten thousand years. Perhaps by then everybody will be gay, even Allah himself. ‘Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife’ morphing into ‘Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s ass.’

Mr High Heels went on, “Coming back to your question, which is – how did all this begin – the Gay Pride Parade actually began as a protest march in New York City, 1969, against the treatment of homosexuals by police in Stonewall. We now mark the infamous Stonewall Riots every June with a parade through town. It is no longer anything political.” He blew a kiss, said toodle-oo and pranced off in an effeminate gait, exaggeratedly swaying his bony ass at the world.

That was when I met Tooth Fairy. At least that’s what she gleefully said she was for the day, breaking into a wide grin, bristling with shiny white teeth. I told her she looked like a slightly overgrown Justin Bieber. ‘I’m Spunkybong,’ I said to her. She liked that, “No, you are Spunkycool.”

Tooth Fairy had a hard, jaded look that most lesbians seem to have – a look that mirrors a lifetime of scorn and discrimination. Yeah, Canadian society may be permissive but at the same time it has enough straight deeply religious folks, who deride gays and lesbians.

I came upon Toothy while she was rolling a joint with weed that appeared a mite dry and crumbly. “Want some?” She put a pinch of the stuff on my palm and I sniffed it. I haven’t tried the stuff since I was twennie. It was low-grade, filled with dried seeds, the kind that you would throw away in Trichy or Kodaikanal, back home in India. The Trichy weed used to be damp, sticky and pungent. And one hell of a ride.

“So, did you meet many straight folks today?” I always like to leave a question in my conversation.

“Sure,” she said,” Most straights at the parade are half-assed. There’s a ton of semi-drunk gay guys out here, looking to get it on, y’know. If you come here in tights or skinny t-shirts, muscles bulging and all, thinking that you’re showing your support, you’re asking for it. Straight men may not get turned on by gays, but boy-o-boy, gays really have the hots for straight men. So, my advice to you straights is – dress plain and unobtrusive.”

Toothy was unstoppable – here are some nuggets that I still recollect – her advice to straight folks at the parade..….

– If a gay comes up and kisses you or envelops you in a hug today, try not to cringe, just bear it with a smile. He is just being exuberant, that’s all. But if you want to make out with him, if you are here for your first gay encounter – that is completely acceptable, go right ahead. Who knows, you might discover you’re in fact gay or maybe bi. The parade could turn out to be a life-changing experience for ya.

– Remember, this day is all about gays. It’s like you’re an Allouette in the Saputo Stadium. You need to just go along with what’s happening. Even if you don’t like it or get uncomfortable, take a deep breath and try to fit in. Every other day of the year is Straight Pride Day, but today you play by our rules.

– Feel free to stare. That’s what the Pride Parade is all about. If we were ashamed, we wouldn’t be out in public like this in the first place. Fierté is French for Pride.

Toothy had been rolling her joint, looking around surreptitiously, every once in a while.

“Afraid of cops?” I said

“Nah,” she said,” They are a sweetheart on this one day. They might be hard-nosed, devoid of humor and all, but today, even though they’re all over, they just let go. It’s like as if they have been told to leave us alone.”

By now Toothy had finished rolling three spindly joints. She dusted her palms against her jeans and rose and then, just like that, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and left with a grin and a parting shot –

“And please, Spunky, don’t tell us we look like Justin Bieber.”

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PS :

I couldn’t make it to this year’s Pride Parade because of the aftermath of Hurricane Debbie and our flooded basement.

The Pride activities began on 1 August with shows, awareness programmes, etc, organized around three hubs, the Urban Hub located in the Quartier des Spectacles, the Olympic Hub around the Parc Olympique and the Village Hub in the Gay Village.

Scandinavian, Black, African, Caribbean, LatinX, they were all be there.

And of course, there was a smattering of Indians from my country of birth. Exposure, leading to scorn and ostracism upon their return, dissuaded them from overtly participating in any activity. You saw them shuffling around, hand in hand, trying to maintain a low profile. They scooted if you tried to take a pic. India is not among the funnest places to be gay.

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