The gay glitterati

If you live in Chicago it's impossible to ignore that we live in one of the gayest cities in the country. When people think of gay friendly cities they think San Francisco, New York, P-town, but Chicago is notorious for two things: our Deep Dish Pizza and our gays. There's the real estate gays, with professional headshot photos on their business cards and Louis Vuitton briefcases. Then there are the I'm-not-really-gay gays who are too afraid to come out of the closet but not afraid of bouncing their towel in the steam room of LVAC, usually spotted with a blackberry and white collar getup. And, of course, there are retail gays--pointing you toward the most expensive products in stores all over the city, each trying desperately to beat a path into the fashion cannon with their animal prints and creative haircuts.

Then there is another species swishing all over the city: the I'm-better-than-you-at-everything gays. They exist everywhere, appear out of nowhere, materialize when you least expect them and least want to see them. The moment you step out of a bagel shop in sweatpants with unbrushed hair nose deep in a bialy schmear, boom there he goes walking by you looking perfect stopping just long enough to make you feel like a schmuck and tell you there's lox spread on you oversized Hanes shirt. The day you're feeling good about yourself after swimming twenty laps in the pool, six of them jump in the pool in their tiny speedos and bounce around enough to show of their muscles. They're at Hollywood beach in their massive groups of 'loose' acquaintances and tight swim trunks, taking over the bars at Sidetrack in American Apparel tank tops. They seem to multiply daily, are almost never seen without a nebulous clump of similarly dressed cohorts surrounding them.

They exist to do one thing and one thing only: make you feel bad about yourself. They are never mean or rude or insulting, to your face at least (which is almost worse because it causes neurotic people like me to imagine what they're saying behind my back). Here is a sample conversation with a friend of a friend of a friend:

I'm in Starbucks having just spilled coffee on myself because of an unsecured lid, which I assume was a malicious oversight of my barista for ordering a double grande nonfat no water dirty chai.

"Hi Zack, you look great!" (Given that I haven't showered and am covered in milk foam I can only assume that this is a joke)

"Oh, hi, that's nice of you to say."

"How's your relationship with that guy, the bar owner, you were like in love moving in last time I hear right? All inclusive vacation in the spring? Right?" (Don't be fooled by the feigned ignorance, as I writer I do detect the past tense in this question i.e. so you're single and miserable right?)

"Oh gosh, yeah no wasn't mean to be."

"Oh sorry, well good for you!" (this insult doesn't translate, only single people understand) "Hey did you hear about Marcy whatsherface? Getting married, god love her right!" (I'm going to add insult to injury now.)

"Oh, uh, nope didn't hear."

"So are you going to the wedding next month?" (I'm no fool, I know you weren't invited. Is that an open wound, here I conveniently have a hot poker to stick in it.)

"Don't think I'll make it. Geez, good to see you I gotta scoot though. Yep."

"How's that writing thing going? When can I download your book on my Kindle?" (I have some salt too, that's good for open wounds right?)

"Okay, bye."

"Alright, it was great seeing you, facebook me!" (Troll, wash your face.)

These guys never miss a beat. They know everything going on with everyone. They wake up early for pilates, they do yoga, they lift everyday. They raise money for charities, they're always polite and well dressed, they have great jobs are are obnoxiously blithe about it. They have perfect abs and perfect relationships and perfect condos on lakeshore drive. They're better at everything and not afraid to point it out to you in passive aggressive ways all the time. And the only comeback you have is to try to smile and cover the ketchup stain on your chinos (somehow, you will only run into them when some food spilled on you, or it could be that they cause you to spill food when you feel the sonic shock wave of their perfection coming toward you, or it could also be that you're just clumsy and on any given day have some food spilled on you). They're shiny glossy perfect faces are splashed across the boy magazines of gay bars, they're the "it boys" of the gayborhood. They're usually into something stupid like buddhism, kabbalah, or pescetarianism.

And they have some stupid "non-flaw" that they can drag out when needed to pretend that they've overcome great obstacles in life. Like they overcame an addiction to Nyquil, or they have an autistic sister, or they're one fourteenth Apache. 

Basically, they are portraits of what you're supposed to be if you're gay in Chicago, successful, well groomed and popular. It almost seems juvenile to say but it's they same way I felt in high school gym class when everyone is picking teams for basketball and I'm last, after the guy with B.O. and the guy in a wheelchair, and the guy that's into Dungeons and Dragons. And people like me, that should be so insignificant as to be completely off their radar seem to shine brightly like a beacon for criticism.

These gay glitteratti are front page center and I'm just the wildly unpopular internationally ignored blogging sensation sweeping the internet or just getting swept under the carpet.

Where do these strange perfect creatures come from, and where can I go to escape them?