Leslie Jordan has passed away suddenly, leaving behind a hole in the landscape of queer icons and idols that will never be filled.
How could Leslie Jordan have ever been closeted? Just look at him. Just listen to him. If he was ever in the closet, it’s the same closet that Liberace and Paul Lynde hung out in the ’60s and ’70s — a closet with no door and a bright, flashing, neon sign above the entrance that says, “LE CLOSÉT.” What I’m getting at is that, in the gut-punch of emotions that pummel my brain after learning news that I can’t even bring myself to type out, the only solace I can find is this: thank god Leslie Jordan was gay, out, and publicly proud for literally as long as I can remember.
There are going to be plenty of pieces about Leslie Jordan’s work. That can be other sites, other writers, other pieces. I can only think of what Leslie Jordan feels like to me, specifically to me, and pray that there is universality in the specificity. Because for me, Leslie Jordan felt like me — an idealized version of myself out there in the world, living his best damn gay life. He was the very, very rare instance of a gay man who was allowed to age in public, allowed to keep his livelihood and life when so, so, so many of his queer siblings were taken far too soon.
This is why it’s so important that Leslie Jordan was so out, so gay, so pink and purple, and also so very much a man in his 60s. Just by being himself, all filthy wit and ebullient charm draped in a sport coat made of a fabric that you just know only has sex with other fabrics of the same gender, Leslie Jordan spent decades as literally living proof that there is a fabulous future for gay men… and for me.
