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A recent edition of Entertainment Weekly reported that there were more gay characters in this fall’s television season than ever before. The magazine explained that it was partially due to a society that has become more inclusive of LGBT people and that it’s finally being reflected on a steady basis in television and movie characters.
Which I think is awesome.
So, I was thinking, it’s time we should be included in other areas too: namely, local haunted-house attractions during Halloween.
We gay people have money (well, for now…), and we support businesses that support us. (At least that’s what I keep being told to say.) So to help the people who run these things, here are a couple of ideas for a few LGBT-themed scary, creepy rooms that, if added to their haunted houses, would bring the gays.
Get working on them.
THE TAN FROM HELL’S DOORS
As you walk down a long, dark, small tunnel you notice an orange haze at the end. Your ears are flooded with a remix of Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music” and an electrified buzzing sound that make you wonder if you’re going to run into the Jigsaw Killer dancing on a go-go box. As you carefully enter the room, you instead notice a tanning bed, humming along, and a closed door on the other side of it. Immediately you figure that something’s going to reach out from the bed and grab you, as that’s the deal in haunted houses, right? So you slide along the wall across from the bed hoping to not make a sound as you extend your hand out to the doorknob.
No luck. Out pops a 20-year-old, clad only in bright-blue Aussie Bum briefs, burnt red-orange like the surface of Mars, sizzling and smoking (no, he’s literally sizzling and smoking, not sizzling and smoking “hot”). His hair is burnt black except for his blonde-tips (somehow, don’t ask) and for some reason he left his sunglasses on his head while in there.
He lights a cigarette even though there’s a “No Smoking” sign on the back wall, introduces himself as Tayden and proceeds to complain for 10 minutes about how frustrated he is because “all the boys think I’m a bottom but, I’m a top, I swear I’m a top!” Then he tries to flirt with you by showing his tan line and asking if you notice his bicep muscles, as he’s been working out for two days but already he’s bored with the gym.
Then he goes on for another 10 minutes, explaining how he gets to tan for free because the guy who owns the tanning salon thinks he’s cute and that he’s talked the guy into letting seven of his other friends into tanning for free as long as they show him their tan lines.
Then he asks you if he could borrow $60 to get his cell phone turned back on.
You scream and run out of the room.
THE FUNDRAISER FROM HELL’S DOORS
As you turn the corner out of a darkened maze, a man named Alan in a nice sweater vest and pleated Banana Republic khakis greets you. He tells you to beware of “Girlfriend,” his evil Pomeranian, who’s been known to piss on anything that scares it (just like its owner). Off in the distance, you hear some redundant club music that was brought over by some cute 20-something because Alan’s music taste buds died in 1988. Everything in the room is on dimmers and touch-sensors, so you’re squinting a lot and accidentally blinding yourself whenever you touch the wall as you set off overhead floods that are pointed at stale Bruce Weber photos from the mid-’80s of half-naked men holding tires, gears and other pieces ripped out of your local Conrad’s.
After the leftover corona burns fade away, you’re approached by a twink in undies asking if you want a hors-d’oeuvre. It’s crabmeat and you politely decline because you’re allergic to seafood. The twink takes it as personal rejection and begins to cry, and he won’t stop. You notice in the corner a group of people just standing there, panting like wild dogs, like those creatures in I Am Legend, drinks in their hands. Someone stands next to them talking about politics and that “change is coming” but the creatures aren’t paying any attention as they’re focused on the cute 20-something who brought over the music for the party.
Meanwhile, the twink still hasn’t stopped crying, and now he’s pouting because he “could have been at the bar with his friends,” and Alan comes over to you with a deranged stare and a clip board and pen, repeatedly asking, “Please fill out The Form. Please fill out The Form. We won’t know who you are unless you please fill out The Form. Please fill out The Form.”
Suddenly, creeping up behind you, a slick, two-faced, local politician starts a speech about how much he supports “the BLTG people” and ends every sentence with “… and someday, your day will come and I-will-be-there …”
You scream and run out of the room.
THE OLD BAR FROM HELL’S DOORS
You walk into the dark, cold room, and immediately your feet are stuck to the gummy, moldy carpeting. Early ’90s dance music eerily plays somewhere in the distance. A television is attached to the wall, tuned to a channel that no one going out to a bar would be interested in watching. You turn and notice a hunched-over figure in a windbreaker and baseball cap sitting at the end of the bar. The only way out of the room is through the swinging men’s room doors on the other side of him.
Feeling as if you’re walking on a floor of chewed gum, you race as fast as you can to get past him, but he quickly turns, trapping you against the uneven pool table that is missing the “2” ball and whose cues have long lost their tips. He says in a scraggly, beer-breathed voice that his name is “Ted,” and he proceeds to rant to you about Ken, the man of his dreams, “The ONE” who left him long ago, whom he’s never recovered from after all these years. The one he dated for a total of three weeks. Who was never really into him in the first place, come to think of it. Who lived in Buffalo and whom he met in person once. At a Leather Pride event. At which they were both so drunk they barely remember most of the night. But, still, he was “the ONE.” He crazily swings his bottle of beer in the air, screaming “Kenny!! Kenny!! Where is MY Kenny?!?!”
Then he tries to hit on you.
You scream and run out of the room.
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