In a month, I’ll be moving out of my current apartment and into a smaller one. Less rent (which is a big plus when you’re saving up for a potential move elsewhere) and less space (which is great when you’re a solo act).

I’m going to start the big move by packing up my bookshelves. I have a lot of books, and since they’re not used everyday, they’re the first to go into boxes.

Atop one of my bookshelves is one of my favorite possessions: a pair of cherry red five-inch platform heels, size 14 wide with ankle straps and cute little bows decked in very faux diamonds. They’re the shoes I wore when I played Hedwig in “Hedwig and the Angry Inch” last year at a local theatre. In a mid-size south Louisiana town with not much of a serious theatre community to speak of, you can be a 6′ 2” fella over 240 pounds and play Hedwig. It’s an example of ignorance being bliss.

We attempted to buy shoes somewhere in town, but that mission was aborted after the incredulous looks from saleswomen and an assortment of really ugly shoes in my size deterred me. (Apparently, women with big feet are expected to be ashamed of their boats, not sex ‘em up.) So we went online and found a pair in my size at a website that specialized in shoes for strippers.

My cherry red platform beauties beat out – by a very slim margin – a pair of acrylic platforms with lights in the soles. And from the moment I put them on, I loved those stripper shoes, ankle straps and all, no matter how much they hurt, no matter how hard they were to walk in.

I loved them because they were transformative. The sort of schlubby guy who went through his day in jeans and sneakers being vaguely self-deprecating and socially awkward could go to the theatre, put on those shoes and be a rock star. He would stand differently, walk differently and most of all feel differently about himself – because let’s be honest, no one messes with a 6′ 7” guy with a German accent in a miniskirt, right?

I felt fabulous.

And I know, you’re going to groan because I used that word. Fabulous. It’s a word that makes all those guys who use the self-descriptive term “straight acting” in their Manhunt profiles roll their eyes in dismissal. But I like the word, I’ve always liked it, and it was never to me a fey word. It was always a deeper, richer word that expressed something real about the gay sensibility and how we exist in the harsh and unforgiving world around us. It was a word that expressed power, fortitude, resilience.

I’ve been thinking about fabulousness a lot these days, because fabulous is what I want to be as I weather this change in my life. I want to feel like that 6′ 7” vaguely Teutonic man in a miniskirt as I walk through a very difficult breakup and a massive upheaval of my life – not the schlubby self-deprecating sneakers guy. He’s fine and all for regular days, for Mondays in my cubicle, for Friday nights at the movies, but for the big stuff, for the big changes, he’s too small, too malleable, too easily swayed, easily broken.

Fabulousness, to me, is a way of facing loss, of facing absence. It’s facing the empty space on the other side of the side of the bed and saying, “That space is beautiful, a vessel for possibility, a waiting space for someone out there in the world.” It’s looking at the prospect of a very big unknowable leap into untested waters and saying, “I’ll jump, and I might fall, but I will look great while falling, I’ll fall gracefully, limbs perfectly akimbo, my face relaxed and serene, my back arched, and it’ll look like I fell on purpose, not because I didn’t know what the hell I was diving into.” Fabulousness is being scared out of your mind but doing it anyway, dressing yourself up in the fear, walking your butt into the center of the room and showing it off as though you never looked better.

(Fabulousness is discursive, obviously. And a little rambly. But fabulousness doesn’t give a damn and keeps writing on anyway.)

You may not like it, you may balk at the word, but the gay community knows fabulousness. We’ve been perfecting it for years, turning straw into gold, wearing our wounds like accessories, riding on the back of a cruel and unjust history as though it was what we intended. We have faced loss with grace a thousand times over, a thousand thousands, we have demonstrated it in ways large and small for decades, in the lives of great men and women who have shouted their truths from rooftops and in small unseen lives that never revealed themselves to anyone.

We learned, somewhere along the way, that pain and injustice and bigotry and defeat were as malleable as clay, and we could shape them into anything we wanted. And in our wisdom, we shaped them into our activism, a ferocious beating heart that drives us to assemble, to march, to organize, to write, to yell, to do whatever we do in the face of opposition.

And we shaped them into those red platform shoes, thank God. Because I love ‘em. I don’t wear them anymore, but I do love ‘em.

They’re my mojo on rough nights. They’re there when I need them. They’re a reminder.

When you’re five inches closer to Heaven, anything is possible.

If there’s one good thing about living in south Louisiana (and there are many, certainly more than one, it’s not quite the sinkhole it is sometimes accused of being), living in driving proximity to New Orleans would be it.

New Orleans is a really terrific city. The best way to describe the place is rich; it’s rich with history, with music, with food, with experience. It’s a city that effuses itself everywhere you turn, and in the years since Hurricane Katrina, the city’s rebirth has amped up that feeling, adding a resilience to the richness, and the place’s exuberance is steelier.

And every Labor Day weekend, Southern Decadence takes place in New Orleans. It’s, in short, a gay Mardi Gras, a weekend-long gay block party in the French Quarter. People from all over the country come down for Decadence, and as the name suggests, there’s a lot of vice running down Bourbon Street, because if New Orleans is good for anything, it’s good for giving people an excuse for excess.

I’ve lived in Louisiana all my life, but I’ve never been to Southern Decadence. It’s never been my speed (I’m a word nerd, more comfortable at Barnes and Noble than a gay bar), and even though in my early 20s I had my share of, um, extracurricular activities, now in my late early 30s — a guy’s got to hold on to youth in any way he can — the idea of decadence doesn’t seem quite so useful anymore, it’s lost a good bit of its shine.

I went this year. Sort of.

Gardner, an online friend of mine from Oregon, came down to Decadence with friends. He’s just ended a 17-year relationship, and the promise of an unfettered weekend where he could do whatever the hell he wanted with whomever the hell he wanted seemed like a perfect expression of newfound freedom. Great in theory, sure, but once he found himself here, in practice, the freedom didn’t fit quite so comfortably.

He needed a little rescuing, so I hopped in the car and drove to New Orleans.

For about an hour we walked around the French Quarter, then we grabbed a bite for lunch while an afternoon rain carried on outside. Then, we decided to go to the Audubon Zoo, and we spent four hours wandering around, checking out monkeys and giraffes, talking, laughing, hanging out.

“You know we’re the only two gay guys in the city here at the Zoo today,” Gardner said while we were checking out reptiles. “We could be our own exhibit.”

That made me think of a coffee date I had the week before with my friend Jude. We were talking about Decadence, and he offered me this:

“Back in the days when everything was about sex and partying, it was like the gay community was just in its adolescence. And now, we’re fighting for marriage, and it seems like adulthood. As a community. So Decadence seems, I don’t know, out of step with who we are.”

I get that. And listening to my friend Gardner talk about coming down here for one thing and ending up with me at the Zoo, I was struck by how that dichotomy plays out in our community all the time.

On the one hand, we’re still defining ourselves by our sexual liberation, earning an identity in it, calling freedom the ability to love who we love, be physical with who we want to be physical with and do it without shame. On the other hand, we’re asking to define ourselves in a new way — solely through the way we love, through the acknowledgement of our relationships, through our emotional and spiritual commitment to another person.

I don’t think it has to be one or the other. But I don’t think the extremes of the two can exist together without some hypocrisy being present.

It works for me, anyway. Right now. Maybe I’m missing something. Or maybe it’s really where our community is headed.

It’s an interesting time to be gay. Our community is changing. In itself. In its relationship to the world around it. And change always means, to some degree, losing something you’re carrying. And I wonder sometimes if we need to think about losing a bit of the adolescence and embrace a bit of our adulthood.

Am I unique in this search?  I live alone, have no relatives and few friends-most of them straight and most of them only at work.

- Singled-In in Spartanburg

Dear Singled-In,

I want to help you become singled OUT! So many gay men tell me they want a relationship, but what they really want is a meaningful overnight relationship! They don’t consciously realize it, but their behavior says so, loud and clear. From childhood on up. Western culture is brainwashed to believe that we cannot be happy unless we can maintain a committed relationship. Well, that’s not so! Yes, it’s nice to have a partner, someone you can go through life with-if that is what you want. But it’s not for everyone. So really the first question you need to ask yourself is, “Do I really want a partner?” Really?

Your next question to consider is why you aren’t more social with other gays and lesbians, especially outside of work? What might you be avoiding or hiding from? To find a partner, you must be willing to get out and exposed to others. Dating requires this. If you stay around colleagues and straight people, you won’t find a partner as quickly, if at all.

Most gay men labor under the fallacy that our culture is interested only in attractive, successful men. The media and the magazines all promote this stereotype. In fact, even though I’m heartened to see gay men on television more and more, sometimes I think it makes things harder for us gays in managing our ordinary personal lives.  TV sitcoms and dramas tend to focus primarily on young, attractive, successful and relationship-oriented characters. Many gay viewers naturally assume that’s the norm that we too should aim for. We’re being forced into the same position as our straight counterparts-which is both good and bad.

You should stop looking to the media for an ideal of what is right for–or wrong with– you, personally. Go inside yourself and decide what it is that you want.

If you are going to find Mr. Right, you will need to market yourself. And that means becoming more social with other gay men who will either be attracted to you or know someone with whom they can fix you up.

And finally, the prejudice of ageism is a real issue that does affect everybody-gay, straight and in between. I do notice its being more prevalent among males. And given that we gay men form an all-male culture, ageism is present inevitably. Yes, it would be easy to use that as an excuse to give up! And yes, you might get a lot of grudging discouragement from people who are age-negative themselves, who accept the reality of ageism, and would warn you there is no hope. To that I say No! ! We cannot let limitations, real or imagined, block us from getting what we want. Neither should you.

One client of mine, 70 years old, gets more sexual, romantic and relational action than any 20-to-40-year-old guy I know. Because of his positive attitude, he doesn’t consider himself too old. Even more importantly, he doesn’t restrict himself to any age group or any certain “type” of guy. Read gay personal ads, and you’ll see whole shopping lists of traits men seek-or won’t accept-in a casual hookup, much less a LTR!

Plenty of young men seek older partners, attracted to the maturity and wisdom that comes from having reached 58 or even older! Investigate the online dating sites for older gay men and their admirers, or join blogs that discuss this issue-of which there are many. Google “older gay men and their admirers” to find very good sites.

I recall a greeting card featuring a model dressed as Uncle Sam, wearing an earring and eye shadow. The message inside read. “You’re a grand old fag!” Always remember that as a Gay Elder, you have much to offer to your peers as a friend, and as a partner, plenty to offer those your age and those younger than yourself.

I chose to stay, for reasons both professional and personal. And in the ten years since I made that choice, I’ve been able to make a life I’m both happy with and proud of. I’ve gotten to do some very cool things, and some pretty amazing people have crossed my path.

And I’m in Cajun Country, so I can guarantee you I’ve eaten well.

Staying also changes the way you experience “being gay” (whatever that is, really. There are so many ways to “be gay,” aren’t there?). When you’re living in the small town South, you don’t have the benefit of an organized, visible gay community to guide you. The connections you make to other gay people are personal ones, and while those connections are nurturing, they don’t carry much power or weight in the larger community. In the larger community, you’re basically alone – if you want to “fight the power,” you’re going to have to do it with an army of one.

That reality breaks some of us. It keeps us in the closet. It leads us to think the best solution is to marry and have kids. It makes us feel ashamed, inferior, purposeless. And I think for most people who don’t live here (or for that matter, those who left here as soon as they could) that experience is assumed to be prevailing one.

But it isn’t. I’ve lived here all my life, and sure, 15 years ago when I first came out, that was the most common story. But today, things are changing. Today, gay people in small towns like mine are starting to figure out that being an army of one isn’t such a bad thing.

Every day, out gay people in small towns like mine change the South. The changes are small – minuscule, even – but there are changes. Those changes aren’t happening in legislatures or city councils (although we small town gays need to get that ball rolling faster). Those changes are taking place in coffee houses, classrooms, neighborhood parks, living rooms and even churches.

We’re working from the other end of change. One on one. By unapologetically being who we are.

Yesterday, my partner Nathan and I grabbed a quick bite at a local fast food place (Raising Cane’s, a mostly southern franchise, famous for their chicken fingers). Behind the counter was this fabulous young gay man – early twenties, clearly in college – decked out in his work uniform, jeans, baseball cap, French manicured press-on nails, fake eyelashes and a shock of glittery blue eyeshadow.

Not the best application, mind you, but he’s young. He’ll learn.

He wasn’t waiting on us. He was waiting on a pair of standard-issue Louisiana jock boys, and they made no attempt to hide their snickering or rolled eyes. One of them even said in full voice to the other, “Dude, you know that’s a dude, yo?”

Did it rattle our fabulous friend behind the counter? No. In fact, I even think he straightened his spine a little. There wasn’t an ounce of apology in his face or his voice. He was who he was, and a pair of bubbas wanting chicken fingers weren’t going to change that for a second.

That’s who I think we are here. Jeans, a baseball cap and blue eyeshadow. Fighting the good fight, one bubba at a time.

Cody Daigle is the entertainment writer for the Times of Acadiana and a blogger on gay issues for theadertiser.com.

About a two weeks ago, I attended a meeting of our local PFLAG chapter for a special presentation by their national executive director, Jody Huckaby (who’s from south Louisiana, incidentally. A small town north of here called Eunice).

The presentation focused on creating positive interactions with faith communities on LGBT issues. It’s an issue with traction here: faith communities are everywhere.

At the beginning of the meeting, Huckaby had everyone introduce themselves and offer two bits of information — which religion they were raised in and which religion (if any) they currently practice. The overwhelming majority of the people assembled – there were around 60 or so, mostly college age, about a fifth 30 and up, mostly from here in Lafayette, some from New Orleans — were raised Catholic. But the group represented the full spectrum of faiths from Catholic to Hindu.

And the overwhelming majority of those assembled said they no longer practice any faith.

I was also raised Catholic, but on the second question, I found myself in the minority. While I’m no longer a practicing Catholic, my partner and I are practicing Christians, attending a local non-denominational church. And as person after person around the room shared their trip from practicing faith to rejecting it, I was struck by a familiar feeling.

It’s the same feeling I get sometimes when I sit in Sunday services and the sermon winds its way to gay issues. It’s the feeling of being a stranger among the flock, an outsider.

Being one of “the gay faithful” isn’t easy. In many ways, you belong fully to no community. Either the church withholds its full acceptance because you’re gay, or the gay community gives you grief because you still go to church. But for us, faith still matters, and it matters enough for us to find a place for it in our lives. We’re nurtured by our faith. We take comfort in it.

And while the relationship is not perfect, it’s one worth working on.

Religion has wounded many of us in the gay community. With one hand sporting an accusing finger and the other holding the Bible, religion has positioned itself as our enemy. We’ve seen religion used as an excuse to deny our relationships and families recognition, to deny us an equal place at the table.

Many of us have fought back, with a similar accusing finger on one hand and our personal truth in the other. And while I understand the anger, it’s difficult for me to see much difference in the postures.

Somewhere between the accusing finger of religion and the accusing finger of the gay community are people like me — gay men and women who believe in God, who still go to church, who have forged friendships with open-minded people of faith (They’re out there, trust me. You just have to dig a little), who have brought the issue up with their pastors (sometimes it’s positive, sometimes not) and who are working to carve a neutral space where being gay and being faithful can peacefully coexist.

I look at it this way: There are six verses in the Bible that religion has used to condemn us. Six verses amid thousands of other verses. One teaching amid hundreds of other teachings. And we have spent our time focused on those six verses, directing our anger at them and forgetting everything else.

Much like religion has.

And in throwing our community’s anger so squarely at religion, we’re leaving some of own behind. And I like to think, as a community, we won’t settle for acceptable losses. I like to think we’re fighting for an equal place for all of us.

You can be angry at the things people do in the name of religion (Pat Buchanan, James Dobson: I’m talking to you). But we should lighten up a little on religion itself. Some of us don’t hate it. In fact, we value it and practice it.

And there are people of faith with open minds, people who don’t think the entire value of a person rests on whether or not they pass the test of those six verses. And those people shouldn’t be discounted. They’re more like us than them.

We’ve gotten to know those people. We see them every Sunday. And they know us, know our partners, know our lives, and it’s made a difference. It hasn’t overcome all the barriers, but it’s broken down some of them, and that’s a start.

The gay community needs to have a little faith in the faithful, both gay and straight.

Cody Daigle is an entertainment writer for the Times of Acadiana in Lafayette, Louisiana, and he is a blogger on gay issues at theadvertiser.com.

“I do not think the gay population has been all that rabid for gay marriage. Note that I do not use the words ‘gay community.’  Expunge that expression from your vocabulary. We are not a community. There are too many of us to qualify for that word, which connotes something much smaller and more intimate than the huge multipeopled grab bag of our rainbow coalition.”

When a certain UNC hoops fan voiced the exact same sentiment a few months ago, many of you acted like your mothers were called women of the streets. Hopefully you will share your anger with Kramer for having the gall to question the sacred term “gay community.”  I’m doubting that will happen but isn’t this the season of dreams?

Forrest Clift can’t wait for summer camp.

For one week this summer, he’ll live in a cabin, sing songs in a dining hall and swim in a lake. It’ll pretty much be like every kid’s experience at summer camp.

The difference?

Forrest Clift isn’t a kid – he’s 41. And he isn’t going to just any summer camp – he’s going to “Camp” Camp.

Founded in 1997, “Camp” Camp is a week-long summer camp for GLBT adults. And when they say “summer camp,” they mean it.

“The purpose we serve is to allow grown ups to be kids for a week,” says Associate Director Susan Clinkenbeard.

“Camp” Camp’s location in southwestern Maine is complete with bunks, a mess hall and a camp store. Campers sign up for activities like pottery, hiking and “Yarn Time.” They also spend the week preparing acts for the Talent/No Talent Show because, let’s face it, camp wouldn’t be camp without skits.

And at night? Campers attend dances, of course. In fact, in addition to insect repellent and seven pairs of underwear, the packing list encourages campers to bring “flashy outfits and costumes” to wear to the evening festivities.

There are a few differences between “Camp” Camp and your regular summer camp, though. For starters, you have to be at least 18 years old to attend. And, unlike the summer camps you remember from childhood, “Camp” Camp doesn’t require campers to participate in activities. You can fill your time with structured events, or spend all day lounging by the lake. And “Camp” Camp prides itself on serving non-camp-like (i.e. good) food.

More importantly, though, the camp provides GLBT adults with an opportunity to socialize outside of the traditional gay scene.

“We try to offer an alternative to the booze and bods element of the community,” says Clinkenbeard, who goes by “Clink.” (It’s her camp nickname – remember those?) “It’s a healthy alternative,” she says, “and people really take to it.”

In fact, “Camp” Camp was originally conceived of as an alternative to the gay men’s bar scene.

NEXT PAGE: Why campers keep coming back.