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I Accidentally Joined a Gay Pride Parade (and Now I’m Wondering if Straight Pride is a Cry for Help)

I was just trying to get to a rooftop party. I wasn’t trying to make a statement, I swear. But thirty seconds after stepping into the street, I was mid-parade, mid-sweat, mid-existential crisis—and completely on-beat.

A cartoon man with wide, confused eyes accidentally walks into a vibrant Pride parade filled with dancing drag queens and shirtless men in short shorts.
One moment I was heading to a rooftop party. The next, I was sandwiched between two drag queens and a man named Flex in glitter shorts.

It All Started With One Wrong Step (and Maybe One Right One)


Look, I didn’t mean to be in the parade. I was trying to get across the street. That’s all. Just across. That’s what crosswalks are for. But I zigged when I should’ve zagged, and next thing I knew, I was swept into a glitter-covered conga line between a guy in a Speedo and a woman dressed as a majestic, sequin-encrusted lobster.


Somewhere between float number 3 (featuring a drag queen dressed as Judge Judy) and float number 6 (a techno remix of YMCA that may or may not still be stuck in my spine), I realized: I was no longer a pedestrian. I was a participant.


I wasn’t crossing the street. I was being reborn.



The Rooftop Party That Never Was


The reason I was out that day—on that very block, at that very hour—was to attend a rooftop party for someone I barely knew but wanted to impress. You know the kind: string lights, questionable charcuterie, conversations about kombucha microdosing.


But as I stood there, trapped in a parade that didn’t end (and frankly, I hoped it never would), I started sweating not from the heat, but from the realization that I looked too comfortable here.


Someone handed me a flag. Someone else kissed me on the cheek. At one point I high-fived a child in rainbow Crocs who called me “Queen Energy.” I don’t even know what that means. But I felt…seen?



So This Is Pride: The Most Joyful Traffic Jam of My Life... I Actually Liked That I Accidentally Joined A Gay Pride Parade


Let me be clear: Pride is not just a parade. It’s a religious experience with confetti. It’s Mardi Gras with better outfits and less projectile vomiting. Everyone was smiling, yelling, hugging, crying. And here I was, in cargo shorts, holding a tote bag that said “I Just Came for the Rooftop Shrimp.”


I tried to leave twice. Both times I got redirected by parade marshals who assumed I was a lost ally looking for the bisexual float.


Was I?



And Then I Said It: “What If There Was a Straight Pride?”


It slipped out. I was delirious. I hadn’t had water. A man in mesh had just told me I was “vibing.” I said it like a joke:

“You know, there really ought to be a Straight Pride parade.”


The music stopped.


A hush fell over the crowd. Someone dropped a vape pen.


I tried to laugh it off. “Just kidding! Haha! Unless…?”


A drag queen in a Ruth Bader Ginsburg wig leaned over and whispered, “Oh honey. That’s called traffic.”



What Would Straight Pride Even Look Like?


Let’s imagine, just for a moment, a Straight Pride parade.


  • Corporate polos tucked into khakis.

  • Floats sponsored by lawn care companies.

  • Music provided by Nickelback, probably.

  • A live reenactment of a gender reveal party gone wrong.


The parade would be beige. Emotionally and aesthetically.


No one would dance. No one would cry. There would be one guy holding a sign that said “I Pay My Taxes.” A marching band plays Sweet Home Alabama on repeat. The grand marshal is someone’s dad named Rick who once grilled a burger with no seasoning.


And it would end exactly the way straight people end everything: with a vague sense of guilt and a trip to Home Depot.



Straight People Already Have a Parade. It’s Called Monday


Here’s the truth: Straight people have never been oppressed for their khakis. No one was ever denied a mortgage because they didn’t own a bedazzled jockstrap. We don’t need a parade. We need therapy.


We need to stop using “not gay” as our only personality trait.


If Pride taught me anything, it’s that joy doesn’t have to be earned—it can be thrown at your face in the form of biodegradable glitter.



Why I’ll Accidentally Join Again Next Year


They say some people find themselves in the desert at Burning Man. I found myself on the sidewalk outside a CVS being hugged by a man with pink chest hair and a tattoo that said “Love Is Loud.”

I accidentally joined a gay pride parade. So what?


I never made it to the rooftop party. But honestly? That shrimp probably had salmonella.



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