Parting Glances: On the (#2)

By |2018-01-15T18:26:54-05:00September 24th, 2009|Opinions|

TOM TOP-QT: Sorry our Lenin’s Tomb, Red Square assignation (instead of a little-too-obvious G-A-I Paree rendezvous) is no go for you. Tough travelog!
Hook-up closeting – getting it on in an out-of-the-way place (that’s my bag) vs. GOP loyalty (your knapsack) – are big, big considerations for us red-white-and-blue, stay-safe-in-the-closet types.
What can I say? Republican loyalty comes first! Church, a close second. (Hey, aren’t they the same bingo game?)
You’re right. It’s one thing to get caught red-handed stateside (God forbid!); it’s another to get caught with your panic down abroad. (Know any QTer who fakes passports?)

While Lenin’s Tomb sounded like a neat crib when we first e-mailed, I’ll have to agree wit ya. Closeted or no. Red Square’s just not PC. Specially for a GOP mainliner like you! A-pol-oh-jees! Middle of the Road Donkey Dude that I am. Where was my head?
Yeah! Send your five-star list of other out-of-the-way (closet safe) places where we can make out anonymously away from nosey family, busybody friends, snoop-dog televangelists, flitzy-flutter choir queens.
Right off the bat I’m sure we agree that, sunny, sandy, romantic, carry-me-banana, Jamaica – even with separate rooms in separate hotels, baggy swim trunks, no rainbow umbrellas, assorted girlie mags – just ain’t in our deck of playing cards. (52 Pickup!)
I’d go for Brazil. But at my age, flight time, jet lag, I’d probably go tourista in a barf bag on landing. And, God only knows what would happen if we got caught up in one of those nonstop, Girl-from-Ipanema, samba, bossa nova, million-dancer marathons that Brazil’s forever jumpin’ with. I’d be laid up and otta joint for weeks!
Anyway, TT-QT, try chewing on this. If we wait til February we can meet up in New Orleans. Go Mardi Gras in costume. Nobody spot us. (As long as we don’t do drag, we can still be All-American, bi-partisan macho.) Have a helluva great time. Pray tell, who’d be any the wiser?
Of course it’s Gaysville. Everybody there’s faggy. But if everybody’s gayola at Mardi Gras, nobody will think a thing about us. We can still be closeted. Blend in. But, at the same time, we can oh-fay too. Neato!
If I go as Batman and you go as Robin (you’re two years younger – 44 – at least you look younger in your flag-draped frontal jpegger) it’ll be a plus. A little padding in the right places will create the illusion.
More than likely there’ll be a dozen or more Batmans and Robins cape crusading everywhere. (Just so no suspicions are aroused by TV or cellphone cameras – we’re mistaken for openly, homo-sex-you-alls – we can wear our I VOTED for McCAIN badges. Better still, our perfect attendance Sunday School pins. Maybe rent a ready-made AVIS Batmobile.)
But … There’s somethin’ I gotta tell you TT – really on the QT – especially if we’re going to have a traveling closeted relationship that’s going to stay closeted for 50,000 miles or parts replacement, whichever comes first! I haven’t told this to a soul. Not even my shrink. Hey, please don’t jump, er, dump me, but I must be open wit ya before we really get it on full steamer trunk.
For months I’ve been attending ex-gay pray-and-sleep-over chill outs, using an alias. (Get this: Bruce Wayne!) I wear a Red Sox baseball cap. Old Spice aftershave. Jerusalem sandals. Carry a basketball. Dribble a lot. SA/SA!
Call it sheer desperation (or sweet political revenge). But – praise be! – I’ve gotten lucky six times. In my closet space. And theirs. Ciao! Boy Wonder. (Just call me Batty for you!)

About the Author:

Charles Alexander