At several points in my life, it's been made clear to me that I'm gay, potentially gay, or not as heterosexual as I'm supposed to be.
I find the whole thing wildly amusing.
A heterosexual male is not supposed to volunteer opinions like "Hey, that UPS guy was good looking." I'm not supposed to be interested in fashion or pour through fashion mags. I'm not supposed to be emotional or cry. I thoroughly enjoyed linking arms with a hetero male friend of mine in high school to buy condoms and a pinwheel for a scavenger hunt. It was plain fun to watch other patrons of the drug store trying like hell to look like they weren't shocked as we minced and paraded around: "Oh darling! Do you think one pack is going to be enough for the weekend? And shouldn't we get some more lube? You know how rough Enrique likes to play!"
Call me a sadistic bastard, but I like pushing people's buttons, playing with their preconceptions and stereotypes. I like shocking and subverting.
When I mention that a guy is good looking, it's not because I want to do him up the ass. Usually it's because I'm with a group a folks who might appreciate my comment, like a group of female friends or acquaintances. In fact, the UPS guy comment was made to a couple of young, attractive coworkers. The reason I made it was that I couldn't help but notice that one of my coworkers studied the young delivery stud with a decidedly predatory stare. Of course, I was working as a U-Haul guy in a small town, so their conservative, provincial sensibilities were a bit piqued when I volunteered my opinion. Have I mentioned that one of them was Mormon? Anyway, they laughed a nervous laugh, reminded themselves that I was from California, and went about their business, secretly wishing to be fucked silly porno-style by a cute UPS guy with a "special delivery."
Of course, not all of me is a big show. I like reading fashion magazines. I'm fascinated by their dreamy world of unattainable hyper-femininity in much the same way that I imagine other folks are compelled to look at auto accidents. The fact that hundreds of thousands of dollars have been spent on a full-page ad for handbags gets me going. What are they trying to convey to the viewer? Is there that much money in handbags? Who buys this crap anyway? Besides, fashion magazines usually show more skin that many "men's" magazines.
As for the sensitive-guy thing, you can blame my dad for that. Despite his rational outlook on life, he's the most profoundly emotional person I know.
Now, peoples' reactions to who I am aren't always fun and games.
When I was active in the SCA, I went a-warring with a group of friends and comrades. My comrades were shocked and disgusted when I could hold my own in a discussion of supermodels and the latest fashions with a friend's 15-year-old daughter and her giggling pals. I never figured what they found more affronting: that I knew so much about fashion or that I was getting so much attention from all the young females in the group. Two individuals in particular didn't like the way the group seemed to be going. Not only did I consort with Harper's Bazaar, I also sported a tie-dyed t-shirt that weekend, a muted, nearly camouflage tie-dye. So they just dropped out and disappeared. Narrow-minded, pin-headed, reactionary conservative fuckers they were. I learned later that my friend's daughter had developed a huge crush on me. Not too remarkable when you consider the whims of many a 15-year-old girl.
Then there were my ex-girlfriend's mom and her lesbian wife who were certain that I was gay. Their reasoning? My ex came to them for advice. Apparently, she was puzzled or worried because I didn't blow my wad in 10 seconds flat. It had to be my fault because she was doing everything right... right? Just rub, suck, and gyrate etc. and the inevitable happens, right? Heck, normal heterosexual guys fuck everything that can't run away fast enough. If it took me so long to bust a nut with someone who rubbed, sucked, and gyrated with as much gusto as their daughter, I must be gay. Gosh, it wouldn't have anything to do with whether I was truly comfortable with her or even liked her, would it? Could it possibly be that sex for a guy could be tied up in issues of love, commitment, and connection?
Fuckers.
Of course, it isn't entirely their fault. I let my testicles blind me to the fact that I didn't like her friends, her family, her habits (smoking), her petty nastiness, her pigheaded ignorance, or the fact that we were totally incompatible with regards to humor, likes and dislikes, background, and life goals. I guess she thought she saw something she wanted in me, the public me. When she got to know me a little better, she found out that I do have faults and that I'm pretty darned weird. Anyone could see what I wanted in her. A friend of mine always remembers her as "the one with the big tits." Maybe this is when I learned that I'm basically a butt man.
Anyway, when the testosterone poisoning started to fade, I saw this cruel, nasty person. I hear that your brain is the largest, most important sexual organ. I suppose that my brain was trying to be a little more discriminating about where I was sticking my dick.
And that's why I'm not gay… even though I wore a friends skirt for a week in college. Maybe that's why our dorm's housekeeper was a little shocked when my future wife explained that she and I were an item. See, the housekeeper thought that my roommate and I were a gay couple, but that's a story for another day.
Pakeha