Kyson Taylor

So I’m in Jamaica right now. And it’s Christmas Eve. I’m here with my mom and brother and sister. We just got dinner. Christmas Eve dinner. They serve the food at the Riu Hotel buffet-style which means waiting in line, so I was kind of annoyed with all of the 20 inch buss down wigs getting stuck in my salad and the over-enthusiastic 

 from overcompensating white dads, still standing in my way. Everyone was dressed in their best red carpet looks. Red Walmart polos and green FashionNova ball gowns galore. Decent food though.

Anyway, after two courses of Riu Hotel Buffet

 and three strawberry daiquiris we decided to mosey on over to this place off the side of the hotel where they have live performances and stuff. We watched some little white girls sing Olivia Rodrigo and skip all the curse words, and some others do cartwheels and handstands and dance moms routines. But after this terrible Reggae band went on, my sister and I escaped to the bar for tequila shots.


We wandered down a corridor looking for something more entertaining, but only found a mirror. That was enough for my sister though. I tried to go on Tinder

 while she was taking all these pictures of herself, but it told me that swiping was a safety risk on account of Jamaica being named ‘

’ in 2006 by Time Magazine. Ok fine. So we went back to the stage. They had switched acts and there was this annoying ass emcee up there. He asked for eight men to join him on the stage. You could tell this guy was an asshole, just by the way he spoke. But nonetheless eight men did join him. He promised them a prize or something I think. Sheep.


Anyway, he made these men do Michael Jackson dance impressions, which all sucked (except for like one). This was his plan, of course. To make fun of these men getting up in front of their wives and acting all feminine. Dancing and shaking their ass and moving their waists and shit. How ridiculous. One of the men was so drunk that after he moonwalked across the stage, he smacked the emcee’s ass. Twice. Of course the annoying ass emcee got all macho and threatened to punch the guy. To be fair though, he had it coming. You shouldn’t touch people like that without their consent. Anyway, after the emcee made them all take a bow and mocked them a whole bunch, he introduced this Michael Jackson dance group.


The dance group appeared in a cloud of machine generated fog to that one Michael Jackson song. You know the one. The Michael Jackson impersonator and crew were hitting every beat. And the crowd was a little confused. I don’t think they were expecting all this. The crew was all dressed in these black navy uniforms with no shirt underneath. Michael’s face was caked in light brown foundation. You could see creases form around his mouth while he lip-synced. Melting under those burning stage lights.


Now these girl dancers were hot. Women in Jamaica say they love to 

, but not like this. Not this freely. Not for an audience. And certainly not anywhere near men who wore layers and layers of Fenty Matte Longwear Foundation

. The makeup’ed guy dancers were soooo sexy. Their costumes, though falling apart at the seams and suffering a couple wardrobe malfunctions, revealed just a peek of cleavage behind the sequin and rhinestone. Soon, their military uniforms gave way to sleeveless gym vests and biceps, which gave way to ass hugging Jackson 5-esque bell bottoms. They danced with a little bit of flair: hands limp, shoulders loose, hips everywhere a man shouldn’t be. Honestly they weren’t that good. And you could tell they were gay. Boys on Tik Tok

 would call them zesty and make fun of them. My mom was uncomfortable. I, however, was on the edge of my seat.


It wasn’t so much the dancers, or even their attractiveness, that had me like that. I was wrapped up in their costumes and the spectacle of it all. Those costumes, falling apart on the stage and too tight for their torsos, had to be homemade, which meant someone in the most homophobic place on Earth had made these gay ass outfits for these gay ass dancers. Someone was probably backstage too, fixing their navy uniforms and retouching Michael’s cakey foundation. Queer fantasies began to unravel in my head.


Now that I thought about it, what was a Michael Jackson dance group doing in Jamaica anyway? Who would let something so 

 like that rehearse in their space? What mothers let their 

 sons run away and join this gay ass group, and put on all that powder and glitter, and wear tight ass pants on their asses for foreign boys like me to drool over, and wine their waists like girls? And what god fearing Jamaican would ever hang out with disgraces like those? Because they have to have friends, right?

So where do they hang out with their friends? And what do they gossip about? Where do boys—like that—go after work to blow off steam? What do they drink at bars? Red Stripe or an Appletini? And who do they pick up? Are they dating anyone? Are they on Grindr or is that banned too? Are they pissed at Tinder

 like I am? Do they have parents like mine, who told them they needed psychiatric treatment when they found red lipstick in their drawers? Or uncles like mine, who might beat them to a pulp if they EVER flirted with that boy in the yellow shorts they saw by the beach? And the dancer with the earring only on one ear— was he signaling to me, all the way back here? Is that single earring in his right ear (my left, his right) how he lets sexy boys at the grocery store, or on the bus, or at church, or in the crowds at his shows, know that he is down to fuck? I am. Down to fuck. Him especially.

It’s now 1:55 am so it’s Christmas. And my questions are all still unanswered. I’m still too scared to go on Tinder

 so I’m writing this instead. Merry Christmas, by the way. Today, my gift is a fantasy. Not just of the sexy ass dancer with the earring in his right ear (my left, his right), but of the world he might belong to. Maybe 

 haven’t burned every last ‘Mister Fagoty’ on the island like ‘an old tire wheel’. God, I fucking hate this place. Most of the time.


But I have hope. Call it Christmas cheer, I guess. Even though Tinder

 has put ‘the most homophobic place on Earth’ on the naughty list, if men like this—men like the ones in the Michael Jackson dance group at the Riu Hotel—exist, and gossip with their friends, and drink Appletinis at the bar, and get mad at dating apps and their annoying ass paternalistic safety measures, and pick up sexy boys at the grocery store, then maybe, just maybe, it can be nice too.

Kyson Taylor

Kyson Taylor

Notes

Notes

Michael Jackson Revisited