By Oddly Robbie, One of One

They’re calling it The Year of the Daddy—that golden age of confident silver foxes, gym-toned arms, and baritone TikToks claiming things like “soft dominance” and “zaddy energy.” Add a scruffy beard, wear a tank top that fits too well, and suddenly you’re seen. Constantly. And for someone like me—gay, autistic, and highly aware—that’s not just visibility. That’s pressure.

Let me tell you: I’m gay. I’m autistic. And I’m tired.

There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from dancing too long or being too hungover. It comes from performing—every moment—just to belong. Not performing like Beyoncé on stage. Performing like someone who’s constantly translating, decoding, masking. Performing like someone whose neurodivergence is a backstage pass to nowhere in the club.

Stares That Don’t Feel Like Compliments

People say, “You’re hot. People are just looking.” They mean well. They think it’s a compliment. But to someone like me—whose brain interprets stares not as curiosity but as threat—those looks land like lasers. It’s a sensory audit, not admiration.

So I do what I’ve always done: I check out.

Not in the “I’m over it” way. I mean literally check out. I mentally glue myself to a speck on the train window. I stare at a cracked tile on the bar floor. I float into a corner of my mind where nothing touches me because everything does.

The Rules I Never Signed Up For

The gay scene, I’m told, is vibrant, sexy, and freeing. And yes, it can be. But there are unwritten rules—a social contract I never signed.

You’ve got to be flirty but not clingy. Funny but not too weird. Mysteriously aloof, but interested enough to give a good story when someone asks, “So, what do you do?”

In neurotypical queer spaces, attraction becomes currency. Looks get you in the door; charm keeps you on the guest list. But what if you struggle with facial expressions? What if you miss sarcasm cues or misread the energy of a group that functions entirely on vibes?

For me, it feels like I’m trying to play chess in a room full of people playing charades—with spotlights, smoke machines, and thumping bass.

The Body and the Mask

I’ve worked on my body, I’ll admit it. It’s my stim or way to destress. Maybe it was about reclaiming control. Maybe it was survival. But the attention that comes with it? That’s a double-edged sword. Suddenly I’m watched more—not less. And being watched, for me, isn’t about validation. It’s about the social math I have to do to stay safe.

I walk into a room already calculating:

What’s the lighting like? Is the bass too loud? Do I need to script my drink order? Is that smile friendly, or am I being set up to be the punchline?

It’s no wonder I’m exhausted by the time I get home.

But I Still Go—Why?

Because hope is persistent. Because connection is still sacred. And maybe—maybe—there’s a small part of me that still wants to believe I can belong there.

But I’m learning to redefine what “community” means. I’ve realized I don’t need to chase the party to find pride. My queerness doesn’t need club approval. And my autism isn’t something to overcome—it’s something to honor.

A Different Kind of Pride

I want spaces where I can be fully me—quiet, quirky, curious. I want a scene that values depth over drama. Where no one plays social poker, bluffing affection for clout.

And I want to tell anyone reading this who relates:

You’re not broken. You’re just not built for shallow waters.

You are a deep sea diver in a splash pool full of beach balls and glitter.

And that’s not a flaw. That’s a gift.

Closing Vibes from the One of One

We can build something different. Queer culture isn’t one thing—it’s many things. And your way of being queer, of being autistic, of being seen—it’s valid, even if the spotlight never finds you on a dance floor.

Let’s make room for each other in new ways. Less performative, more present. Less curated, more curious. And hey, if all else fails—find your window speck, breathe deep, and know that even in your quiet, you’re still dancing.

Stay odd, stay sensitive, stay you.

Because one of one is more than rare—it’s sacred.