This story resonates with me quite a lot. I was in my mid to late 20s when I first the experienced the physical queer communities of New York City's gay neighborhoods. Sometimes, I felt like I'd landed in the middle of a stereotypical film - or perhaps more accurately - in the middle of a stream of films with competing esthetics.

Rocky Horror seemed to lurk around every corner, while Joel Grey's MC held court at every other piano bar.

Howie, a stereotypically effeminate leather queen who pranced rather than walked, was a great friend who confused me. He seemed to embody the stereotype of the fiercely campy queen ready to drag anyone for a laugh. Only the closer we became, the more I realized how gentle and kind he was.

He didn't embody campy cruelty after all. He lived a sort of self-aware irony - a critical component of camp that sometimes gets lost in the execution.

My own esthetic struggled to express itself. All my life I'd been judged for not living up to a "proper" masculine image, so finding myself surrounded by friends who either didn't care about that or who thought I was more butch than your average Manhattan queen ... it took me a long time to settle on who the "real" me was.