There is a special kind of financial trauma that comes with being a well-adjusted, socially active gay adult. It is not rent. It is not inflation. It is not even that one night out that somehow turns into tequila and regret.
No. It is the gay tax.
And unlike actual taxes, there are zero benefits. No cashback. No cute little government letter saying thank you for your contribution to society (like we ever receive those). Just another invite. Another gift. Another polite smile while your bank account quietly screams into the void.
Because we show up for everything. Engagements. Bachelor parties. Weddings. We are there like well-dressed little soldiers of love. Holding champagne. Holding envelopes. Holding in the urge to ask if this is the last one for the year or if we should just set up a direct debit at this point.
And yes, sometimes we gays get married too. We have the rings. The outfits. The vows that make your emotionally unavailable friend suddenly cry like he has feelings. But let’s be honest. There are fewer of those moments for us. Fewer milestones. Fewer chances to be on the receiving end of all that generous, slightly performative love.
When the kids arrive…that is where the gay tax really spreads its legs and makes itself comfortable.
First it is the baby shower. Cute. Harmless. You buy something small. Something tasteful. Something beige and sustainable that the parents will pretend the baby cares about.
Then comes the first birthday. Which is actually for the parents. Then the second. The third. Suddenly, you are at a toddler’s party that looks like a low budget music festival and you are holding a gift that cost more than your last grocery run.
And every single time, you show up.
Because you love them. You really do. Even when you are standing in a living room full of screaming children, holding a lukewarm drink, wondering how your life choices led you here.
But the real kicker is not even the money. It is the compromise.
They move out of the city. Of course they do. More space. Better air. A garden. A swing set. A life that requires a car and the patience of a saint. So now you travel. You always travel. Because the kid cannot. The kid needs their bed. Their toys. Their routine. Their emotional support spoon.
God forbid that child spends three hours in a different environment. Call the fucking authorities!
So you drive (read the boyfriend). And you plan. And you adjust your entire weekend around a nap schedule that is treated with more respect than most adult relationships. Spontaneity is dead. Murdered by a baby monitor. And while all of this is happening, I have one question.
Where the hell are our milestones?
Where is my puppy shower? Spencer has been serving face, attitude, and unconditional love since day one. He deserves gifts. Expensive ones. Possibly wrapped.
Where are the balloons for buying our first dildo? That is growth. That is commitment. That is a relationship investing in itself. Where is the cake for a perfectly executed douche situation? Do not act like that is not a victory worth celebrating. That is plumbing and discipline working together in harmony. And where is my card for a negative test result from te GGD? Because honestly, that moment deserves flowers, applause, and at least one dramatic entrance.
But no. Silence…
Because our milestones are either too real, too uncomfortable, or too fabulous for mainstream celebration. So we clap for theirs. Again and again. Louder each time. Wallet open. Smile on.
And look, we do it with love. We are good friends. Great friends…the kind of friends that show up, bring wine, bring gifts, and still laugh at your boring story about daycare politics. But sometimes I want less obligation and more fun. I want a random message that says get your ass over here, we are drinking Aperol Spritz and making bad decisions. No planning. No schedule. No child-friendly anything.
We compromise enough just existing. So maybe it is time for a little return on investment. Get a babysitter. Pack light. Bring wine. And come to us for once.
Because the gay tax has been paid. In full. With interest. And frankly, I am ready for a dividend.
So tell me Shitizen, when was the last time you showed up for your childfree friends without turning it into a logistical nightmare?
