As Gay as it Gets
Saturday night at the restaurant, one of the male servers grabbed me by the arm and directed my attention to a group of Barbie dolls sitting in the lounge. Packaged together, each came assembled with a matching set of platinum blonde hair cuts and four-inch waists. However, judging by the different designers dangling from their arms, accessories were sold separately.
“Fox,” the server stopped drooling long enough to say to me, “you have to think those ladies are smoking hot! There is no way you can be that gay.” Slightly bemused by the entire affair, I turned to him and said in a tone of absolute certainty, “I am as gay as it gets.”
When I first came out in the nation’s capital, my uncle told me he always suspected I was predisposed to fabulousness. At the time I remember rejecting his claim on the grounds of my own naiveté. To me it sounded as if he was saying that my increased likelihood of wearing tight pants was on the same genetic page as my risk for developing colon cancer, heart disease and alcoholism. But after catching myself in the mirror the other day with wrists full-out limp, I am starting to think he was on to something.
As far as fabulous predispositions are concerned, the age-old question becomes: nature or nurture? If nature wins and there is a supposed “gay” gene, then all I want to know is whether it distinguishes between different levels of flaming or not. If it does, then I’m fairly sure my bun was on fyah when it was cooking in the oven it was so hot. Turning down Mariah Carey low enough yesterday to conduct some serious thinking on the matter, it occurred to me that if Kinsey ever had the chance to interview me, he wouldn’t have stopped his scale at 6.
I mean please, let’s be real, everything from the way I walk to the way I talk screams Nancy.
But if nurture takes the cake and I was conditioned to be this way, my question then becomes - who is to blame? Should my father have put his foot down when I demanded missing baseball for my second-soprano choir practice? If my mother had let me cross the street alone before I was fourteen, would I be writing about my female conquests instead of my failed attempts with men? In response to Jimmy Ray’s one-hit question, “Who wants to know?” the answer is me and right now. In the meantime, however, I will content myself with my own reflection.
Last night, the hottest gay couple on the planet came in to eat. Think Posh and Becks but replace the former Spice with Hayden Christenson and you will see what I am talking about. Staring inappropriately at them, the same server from the other night walked past me. For a second I debated grabbing his arm like he did mine and saying “Tell me you do not want to crawl under table 22A, there is no way you can be that straight.” However, fearing I would lose my moment, I decided against it and carried on stalking.
