Gov. Gretchen Whitmer addressed the State of Michigan after a plan to kidnap her and other Michigan government officials was thwarted by state and federal law enforcement agencies. She started by saying thank you to law enforcement and FBI agents who participated in stopping this [...]
By Anthony Paull
You’ll have to forgive my beautiful friend, Jasmine. Tonight, she’s sucked down one too, too many glasses of white wine, and now she’s feeling a tad bad for herself because she hasn’t had a penis inside of her for two months. It’s my fault, she says.
The gays and me, we’re the sole reason she has little chance at locating a man these days. After all, the gays started this ridiculous metrosexual movement, she states. Now, she can’t tell who is what and what homo is who. If only the gays – mainly those annoying “Queer Eye” guys – hadn’t given away all of their precious secrets to straight men, she might have a chance of locating a member of the nearly-extinct heterosexual male species. But since none appear to be at this party, she’s headed to find herself another glass of wine.
Now, as much as I like to agree with my friends, sometimes I have to refute their beliefs. Actually, it’s fun, notably when they’re drunk. And my dear Jasmine is getting there. So I kindly explain to her that sometimes location is the key. For example, right now we’re surrounded by gay men because we’re at a hairdresser’s birthday party. We’re in an upscale salon with white walls, white leather furniture, and a fancy TV glued to the wall with Cher singing like a robot in the background. Oh, and did I fail to mention the Boston terrier running around with lime-colored nail polish?
I mean, come on.
What type of man did she expect to meet here? Clearly, this is not the place to be for any upstanding member of the heterosexual male society. Of course, you might find one, clutching his girlfriend’s Coach purse and holding his nut sack in the corner. In other words, there are heterosexual men to be found, but generally, most know better than to frequent such a party location.
Or so I thought.
“There’s one,” Jasmine says, locking her eyes on some guy in the very same manner as a fat kid would to the last Twinkie in the box.
“How do you know he’s straight?” I inquire.
“A woman just knows,” she insists.
Now remember, this is coming from the same surly woman who just told me that she can’t tell who is what anymore. But now that she’s drunk, she can tell. Of course! It makes perfect sense.
It’s all so perfect, in fact, that Jasmine decides she’s going in for the kill. Her tired technique: the disgustingly-obvious “Why are you hiding?” line. Of course, he’s not really hiding; he’s just one foot in an open broom closet, hiding from her. I swear, she’s so tipsy, so cutesy, so “I’m going to this-and-this-and-this party later tonight,” I’m about to run away, too. “Do you want to join me for an ‘after hours’?” she asks him. “We’re all going for shots at this trendy little rum bar.”
Here’s where he becomes Mr. Straight with a big old question mark. You see, even though he’s sucking down a beer and talking manlier than Michael Keaton in “Batman,” he’s here with (drum roll please and say it in a Mandy Moore voice) Bob. The problem is no one can tell who, what or where Bob is. But still, he’s all “Bob this” and “Bob that” and “I can’t go anywhere without Bob.”
Jasmine isn’t about to let “Bob” distract her, though. “Oh, come on. It will be fun,” she pleads, bouncing her banana tits like bait. I’m thrilled, because we all love Jasmine’s tits, even if we are gay. What can I say? We gays admire beautiful things. However, Mr. Straight, he’s much more concerned about Bob. And further in the conversation, just as he announces that he’d be nailing one of the gay boys at the party if he were gay, that’s when I tell Jasmine she might have hit a dead-end.
“What? You think he’s gay?” she asks.
“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that most straight men don’t talk about nailing other men when they have your tits staring them in the face.”
With a final laugh, Jasmine drunkenly agrees and scurries away from the party in hope to find another love that night. As for me, I’m left with that pressing question in my head: Can you truly tell if someone is gay?
It’s tricky, because gay comes in all shapes and sizes, and not all of us are wearing glitter and raising a rainbow flag. Do I think Mr. Straight is gay? I don’t know. He might not know either, which leads me to a bigger question. Does gay, straight or bi really exist? Or is sexuality more fluid – an uncontrollable desire for someone, anyone, regardless of their gender – like the pansexual theory suggests? Can there be a period of multiple periods of “gayness” during our lives? Surely, our taste buds change. Why not our love buds?
These days, dating and relationships in general have become so mind-boggling because people have been granted more breathing room in order to take risks with their sexuality, and that’s an awesome progression for mankind. But, like all new paths, we’re just learning where it will lead. Who knows? Someday, maybe labels like “gay” and “straight” won’t be necessary. You won’t need Prada on your sunglasses to prove your life is rich, and you won’t need to raise a rainbow flag to prove you’re proud to be in a relationship with a member of the same sex.
In sum, you’ll just be sexual. True. For some, such ambiguity may be too scary of a thought. For the remainder of us, a path worth exploring.