Parting Glances
I don't look gay. I don't act gay. Ever since I discovered at age six that I was "that way" – odd, different, light in my loafers – I've made it a badge of honor not to tell family, classmates, church members anything about my sex life.
It's my secret. Motto #1: I can pass. (So, why can't everybody? No fuss, no muss, no bother. What they don't know won't hurt them!)
Yes, my father's 105, and mom – God bless her Bible-thumpin' heart – is 98. I know if I told them I'm a "funny farmer" they'd either disinherit me or die. Maybe both.
Let my folks arrive at Pearly Gates without a clue about me. (If St. Peter wants to tell them, well that's his business. I ain't sayin' diddly squat. As far as I'm concerned: Motto #2: Gay or not, once saved always saved. Once dunked, forever wet behind the ears!)
Anyhow, I'm not about to take the risk. My sister Winoma-Jeepers, who's got 15 kids and twins or triplets in the oven, couldn't care less. My brother-in-law, Harlow-Harley Jeepers, who never finished eighth grade, thinks I'm the greatest because I sell plumbing insurance door to door, and he's into pipes, tight fittings, drain uncloggings.
Please don't misunderstand me. Some people can – what's the expression – "come out." I've a cousin Palmserella who's a lesbian – I think bull dyke's her shout-and-rout handle – but because of that (and her bra-less biking) she doesn't get family reunion invites.
If staying content "in the closet" gets me a family reunion welcome with all those down-home vittles, so much the better. If anybody asks me when I'm going to get married – I'm 46 come next Monday – I just answer, "2015 looks promising. Say, who's going to take the pennant this year?"
Don't get me wrong. I realize I've got a strong grab-ass sex drive. (I'm told us Southern Baptist types, because we try so hard to hold it all in – be celibate 'til marriage – don't wank unless you really, really have to – that the pressure to sin, to 'get a nut off' is greater than holding to the daily average of three.)
But, let's be honest, Tom-Top QT, seeing your e-mail to me was so above board (and I really, really dig the picture – the bedside Bible's a nice touch), when the urge hits me I go out of town. My frequent flyer miles have been a godsend. (Please note the small g.)
This year I've been to Dallas six times, Reno four times and Juneau, Alaska. (I sat next to Sarah going out. We had a lovely chit chat. "What flies you here?" she asked. "Oh, just fly fishin'," said I. "That makes us two rod and reelers handsome."
I was thinking of San Francisco, but changed my mind. Frisco's too obvious. When I fly I don't want to sit window by any Castro queeny types. Motto #3: Don't blow your cover, and never, never blow it undercover in public.
Your e-mail to me's hot-weather timely. (I got your tag from a choir buddy who swears by QT.com. He doesn't have frequent flyer miles, but his yearly get-laid-secretly budget's $20K. Lucky fly caster!). I had planned to head for Chicago, Seattle, or sedate Ferndale, wherever the hell that spot is. But … the opportunity to meet up with a kindred closet spirit like you is too great to pass up. But, TOP-TOM QT, some requests. Send me another picture. Full frontal. No Bible or American flag. And…
Can we meet up, say somewhere other than Paris? G-A-I Paree. How about Lenin's Tomb? (It's relatively safe. And, one would assume, reasonably quiet at 2 a.m.)
