Flay Boy
The annual Envy Parade was in full swing, and the streets were lined with curious onlookers. Floats sailed past, each representing a niche identity or cause, some of them oddly specific—like the group advocating for the right to wear socks with sandals in formal settings. But none drew more attention than the Flay Men. Their leader, a man with the build of a construction worker, strode confidently down the center of the street, shoulders squared, chin high.
He wore a fluorescent orange vest, the kind you’d see at a job site, and a hard hat perched perfectly atop his head. His beard was trimmed with meticulous care, but his voice was the real giveaway.
“We’re here to claim what’s ours!” he bellowed, his voice deep, gravelly, and utterly unmistakable. “We are Flay men, and we demand recognition!”
The crowd murmured in confusion, but he pressed on, undeterred. His steps were slow and deliberate, the way someone might walk if they wanted to be absolutely certain you noticed them.
A bystander, clutching a rainbow flag, leaned toward her friend. “What’s Flay?”
“Oh, you don’t know? It’s when—well, you know. They prefer, um, receiving oral.” She paused, a little embarrassed. “That’s, uh, basically their entire thing, and has become their entire identity.”
The leader, having overheard, turned his head with a steely glare. “That’s not all we are,” he said, his voice dripping with masculine bravado. “We’re men who deserve better. We’re tired of being sidelined, marginalized. Just because we’re Flay doesn’t mean we’re any less of a man. If anything, we’re more.”
He adjusted his tool belt, which held no tools, only symbolism.
As the parade float for the Flay Men approached, it became clear that their message was serious—well, serious to them. The float was an odd combination of a giant, spinning drill and what looked like the head of a luxurious bed, with plush pillows and silk sheets. A banner flapped behind it, reading: “Equal Treatment for Flay!”
A man from the crowd, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, gave a half-hearted clap. “You’re really brave, man,” he called out, though the confusion on his face suggested he had no idea what any of this meant.
“Damn right,” the leader shot back. He stopped walking, turned fully toward the crowd, and pulled a megaphone from his belt. “It’s not about bravery. It’s about justice. It’s about time we stopped being overlooked for promotions. Time we stopped getting weird looks when we talk about our preferences. Time we got our own bathroom stalls!” He punctuated the last line by raising a fist into the air.
There was a brief silence.
One of the other Flay Men on the float, a smaller man wearing a sleeveless plaid shirt, leaned over and whispered, “Do we really need our own stalls, though?”
“Absolutely,” the leader said without hesitation. “We’re Flay. It’s part of our identity. It’s about comfort. Respect.”
Another murmur rippled through the crowd. A few claps here and there, mostly out of politeness, mingled with a growing sense of bewilderment.
A teenager in the front row, wearing a shirt that read “Pride and Pizza,” furrowed his brow. “Wait, so… they’re just really into, like, getting… y’know…?”
A woman beside him shrugged. “I guess? I mean, everyone’s got their thing. I don’t judge.”
The leader raised the megaphone once more, this time addressing the confusion directly. “I know what you’re all thinking. ‘What’s so special about Flay Men?’ Well, let me tell you—our experiences are unique. We’ve faced challenges you wouldn’t believe. Discrimination. Judgment. We’re here today to say: enough is enough!”
The construction worker look-alike paused for dramatic effect. “You can spot a Flay man a mile away,” he said, tapping his chest proudly. “We’ve got a certain… energy. A way of carrying ourselves. People see us coming and they just know. And it’s time the world acknowledges that.”
The float continued down the street, the absurdity of the moment lingering in the air as the crowd tried to make sense of what they had just witnessed. For most, it would be another weird footnote in the annals of the Envy Parade. But for the Flay Men, it was the beginning of a movement.