Whether I'm purchasing a plaster cast of Michelangelo's David, the latest reprints of Gordon Merrick novels, gay porno magazines, designer clothes (designed by Gay designers, of course), or freedom rings, I am preserving for posterity the highest pinnacles of our glorious gay culture.
Of course, I'm not doing this because I'm addicted to shopping, or for my own benefit. I'm preserving these items for future generations of Gay people.
I am currently constructing (with the help of a multitude of willing slaves) a tomb which is to contain my mortal remains, carefully enbalmed in the manner of the ancients, along with those posessions which will convey to some future archaeologist the Gay culture as it exists in the current dynasty.
Imagine, some thousand years hence, as some future Howard Carter breaks through the wall to find a dusty room crowded with the ephemera of my regal life. Enema bags, dildos, cockrings, pinky rings, nipple clamps, cone bras, wigs, posing pouches, all gilded and bejeweled with faience and lapis. My pet cats mummified (as I am so often tempted to do to them when my little children misbehave!) And a treasure trove of Gay Culture.
For after all, we are the ones who harbor the pinnacle of Western culture. Visit your local mega-record store, and enter through the soundproofed doors to the classical music section. You will find nobody there but Gay men. Sure, there are plenty of Gay Philistines shopping for techno out in the rest of the store, but in this section are the true elite of the gay world, the creme de la creme. Similarly, who is it who visits art galleries. Heterosexuals only know to visit museums when shows are hyped as "must-see." Let's face it, the muses are fag-hags, and Parnassus is a cruising-ground.
When I buy, I am not simply propping up capitalism, participating in a system in which elites buy luxuries while the poor do without. No, I am building a new Alexandria, an empire whose glory will be in dust.