After we ensconced ourselves under a nice tree, a street vender strolled past us selling little gay pride flags. Nigel simply had to have a flag. Even though he is approaching thirty, these parades are still a big deal for him. As the son of an extremely conservative Baptist preacher, he’s come a long way to where he is today. He’s escaped a mountain of dogma in his fairly recent journey. During his sojourn, his faith has remained constant. His God would want him to be proud today, and every other day for that matter. What a nice God he has—I think I like Him. Nigel’s first gay pride day had been in the smallish Denver in ’98, so this New York "big city" pride day was a first for him. He was beamingly proud to be there. As we could see the beginning of the parade crest into our view, the crowd began cheering. Nigel quickly joined in and began happily waving his flag. He was having a ball, and it was apparent all over his exuberant, smiling face. Looking at my man’s fresh-faced and new gay boy pride, and understanding his struggle, I again remembered the magic that these parades were all about. There’s new things happening for Nigel every single day. It’s not about the floats, the grand marshals, the corporate presence. It’s about surviving your journey and getting to the other side—to the other side where there’s a place to be proud. There’s new pride to be seen at every parade—there’s new pride every day. "You wave that flag, sweetie!"

Most floats in the parade were musical and colorful—some more so than others. There is a show appearing in Greenwich Village called "Naked Boys Singing," and these boys had their own float in the parade. Hot, well-muscled boys prancing and dancing on the float, wearing nothing but artfully knotted sarongs. Along the route, they were throwing beach balls, imprinted with the title of their show, into the crowd. One boy in particular was exceptionally delicious, and I couldn't help but notice his lack of underwear under his thinly made sarong. Plainly evident was the thick head of his penis bobbing up and down as he danced to the music emanating from his float. Needless to say I was utterly transfixed by the sight. With my eyes firmly glued to his bouncing member, I pointed out to Nigel the show that the float-boy was providing us. The delicious boy saw me gesturing toward his crotch, and he locked his eyes firmly onto mine. He jumped down from his perch, reached to pick up a beach ball, and hopped right off the float. He languidly ran back up the street toward me and handed me his ball. The fact that I lured this hottie right over to my side away from his gyrations on the float, and that he was bearing me gifts, for all of Manhattan to see, was a tremendous happening in my humble little, FORMERLY-jaded life. I had never been more flattered or felt more desirable. So much for my previous lackadaisical attitude toward pride parades, and for that matter toward life itself. New things can happen everyday. And they can happen to me. After I gleefully accepted this sexy man’s ball, I nudged Nigel and said: "Observe and learn, my darling. Imagine, enticing beautiful strangers into offering me their balls—what’s next, I wonder?"

As I sensuously cradled the hot man's hefty ball under my arm, float after float came down the street. Soon, a group of gay Democrats holding "Hillary 2000" placards was marching towards us. At the periphery of this contingency were people offering Hillary stickers for the crowd to wear. I screamed to the guy in front of us: "HEY! We love Hillary!" Then, somewhat cattily, added, "but why isn't she here?!" He came over to us, gave each of us a sticker, which I promptly placed on the left butt pocket of my short jean shorts for the whole world to see. Then he told us that Hillary was actually joining the parade at 30th Street, which was a half block away from us. We thanked him, then instantly walked down the street to witness our First Lady in action. There was a ring of photographers on the other side of the street, so something was definitely going on over there. From time to time, cheers would erupt from the crowd around this phalanx of photographers. After about five minutes, Hillary emerged from this press ring and entered into the march. The crowd went nuts! Chants of "Hill-a-ree! Hill-a-ree!" followed her along the route. We walked down the sidewalk along with Mrs. Clinton for a few blocks, getting numerous glimpses of, hopefully, the next senator from New York. As she proceeded with the flow of the parade, you could feel the buzz in the street growing ahead of her. People somehow, from somewhere, began filling the street. After a few blocks, the enormity of the crowd seemed to ease our little trio’s excitement over this festive moment, so we ducked off the parade route to make better time to the Village to check out the post-parade activities. Once there, we were making our way down a small street, when we were virtually trapped in a sea of flesh as Hillary marched past us again. No one on the sidewalk was moving—at all. A solid mass of people everywhere. Help! It was a wall of flesh, and it was scaring me.  Regardless of the claustrophobia factor, it was a grand experience for us to see her, and it wasn't just us three either—the crowd absolutely adored her. All told, Hillary walked in a little more than half of the parade. I was definitely impressed, and I’ve seen it all, remember? If we didn't love Hillary before—and we did!—we certainly  love her now. She’s the first First Lady of the land to ever march in a gay pride parade. That’s a big deal, folks. That took guts. You go, Miss Thing! We can rest assured that her opponent, Mr. Lazio, was nowhere to be found that day—scheduling problems, most probably. It seems that in that senatorial race, Hillary appears to be the only candidate with balls. "So, hey, New Yorkers, get out the vote. Make this lady a senator!"

Gay Pride 2000—New York City. It was a ball, and balls were absolutely everywhere: my sweet, precious boy freeing himself from his repressive past, having an absolute ball at his first big pride day; my enticing a naked singing boy into giving me his balls, curing forever my "over it" attitude; and the First Lady of my all-too-often-suppressed country being brave enough to be proud for everyone in her country, and having enough courage to show us her balls. A fine day indeed—having a ball, getting some balls, and seeing some balls. Who could possibly ask for a better gay day? I certainly can’t—but, then again, new things can happen and do happen every single day.