Something has been happening lately that I never even imagined was possible: I've been getting hit on by very large, very aggressive gay men. It's not like this is the first time I've been approached by a man who probably imagined our conversation finishing in the bathroom, but those guys were one metallic tiara away from being She-Ra: Princess of Power. And why not? I'm butch! That's how it's suppose to be! So why the sudden influx in gigantic vessels of unstoppable man-love?
In the perfect world I've created in my mind, a world where gays can not only get married, but surf uninhibited through the clouds on rainbow highways, big butch homos generally find themselves attracted to fabulous queens. I know that sounds incredibly naive, but there are too many idealistic possibilities in life for me to make them all perfect in these creepy fantasies I weave in my head.
So why am I surprised that these particular men find me attractive?
1. I don't look the part. If fashion was the Temple of Doom, then gay fashion is the part where your heart gets ripped out by a shrieking fanatic right before he drops you into a river of fire. The best I can do in this cruel game is cover myself with Kenneth Cole and hope no one notices me. But to the gays, I might as well be pissing into my own mouth while trying to pass it off as a cool, refreshing Mountain Dew.
2. I don't act the part. One would think that shamlessly positioning yourself on a treadmill with the best view of a nearby womens-only Pilates class would confirm your stance as a breeder, but in reality, it only confirms to everyone else that you're a pervert. And being a pervert isn't necessarily a sexual orientation. Actually, considering all the times I've made out with dudes, this particular argument is about as sturdy as a sliding glass door with a group of kids playing baseball near it.
Okay, so I really don't have an explanation for this phenomenon, so I'll just recount the most recent tale to earn a position on my list of reasons I'm glad I'm not gay.
Over the course of the last few weeks, I've noticed a tall Greek man at my gym appearing more and more around the same workout stations I happen to be at. After awhile, I noticed him trying to catch my eye. Not long after this realization, I said fuck it, might as well let him catch it once just so he knows I'm on to him.
*Note to men!* When you catch a woman's eye, it sets the stage for a series of playful games possibly taking place over several minutes to an hour, depending on the situation. When you catch a man's eye, you've just locked eyes with the hunter. He's been stalking you through the jungle with infinite patience, but now that you've seen him, he's got to move in for the kill before you get away.
So I go into the locker room to get a new towel because, you know, there's sexy ball sweat all over the one I'm using. He sees me leaving and immediately stops what he's doing to follow me in. Once in there, I go to the sink and rinse my face off. He comes in and starts getting naked. Now, I'm not ignorant to the spontaneous sexual habits of the American homosexual. I've gone out drinking with many a gay friend who vanished only to return moments later with a prize winning grin on their face. And let's not forget their most famous invention, the glory hole. So based on that, I'm pretty sure this guy is hoping that I'm looking to take a shower.
The dude is now completely naked, so I steal a glance to see what I would have been up against because you never know, I might have an inexplicable change of heart. Not only did this guy reinforce the oldest Greek stereotype, but if I were to entertain any thoughts of getting it on with him, I would have had to reinforce my colon, if you know what I'm sayin'.
That being said, had I been gay, I would have soon found myself lying face down in a locker room shower with my ruined and bloody ass having been torn asunder by some nameless descendent of Zues. Not exactly the kind of gruesome fate I face as a straight man. Not being gay has literally saved my life this week.
In the perfect world I've created in my mind, a world where gays can not only get married, but surf uninhibited through the clouds on rainbow highways, big butch homos generally find themselves attracted to fabulous queens. I know that sounds incredibly naive, but there are too many idealistic possibilities in life for me to make them all perfect in these creepy fantasies I weave in my head.
So why am I surprised that these particular men find me attractive?
1. I don't look the part. If fashion was the Temple of Doom, then gay fashion is the part where your heart gets ripped out by a shrieking fanatic right before he drops you into a river of fire. The best I can do in this cruel game is cover myself with Kenneth Cole and hope no one notices me. But to the gays, I might as well be pissing into my own mouth while trying to pass it off as a cool, refreshing Mountain Dew.
2. I don't act the part. One would think that shamlessly positioning yourself on a treadmill with the best view of a nearby womens-only Pilates class would confirm your stance as a breeder, but in reality, it only confirms to everyone else that you're a pervert. And being a pervert isn't necessarily a sexual orientation. Actually, considering all the times I've made out with dudes, this particular argument is about as sturdy as a sliding glass door with a group of kids playing baseball near it.
Okay, so I really don't have an explanation for this phenomenon, so I'll just recount the most recent tale to earn a position on my list of reasons I'm glad I'm not gay.
Over the course of the last few weeks, I've noticed a tall Greek man at my gym appearing more and more around the same workout stations I happen to be at. After awhile, I noticed him trying to catch my eye. Not long after this realization, I said fuck it, might as well let him catch it once just so he knows I'm on to him.
*Note to men!* When you catch a woman's eye, it sets the stage for a series of playful games possibly taking place over several minutes to an hour, depending on the situation. When you catch a man's eye, you've just locked eyes with the hunter. He's been stalking you through the jungle with infinite patience, but now that you've seen him, he's got to move in for the kill before you get away.
So I go into the locker room to get a new towel because, you know, there's sexy ball sweat all over the one I'm using. He sees me leaving and immediately stops what he's doing to follow me in. Once in there, I go to the sink and rinse my face off. He comes in and starts getting naked. Now, I'm not ignorant to the spontaneous sexual habits of the American homosexual. I've gone out drinking with many a gay friend who vanished only to return moments later with a prize winning grin on their face. And let's not forget their most famous invention, the glory hole. So based on that, I'm pretty sure this guy is hoping that I'm looking to take a shower.
The dude is now completely naked, so I steal a glance to see what I would have been up against because you never know, I might have an inexplicable change of heart. Not only did this guy reinforce the oldest Greek stereotype, but if I were to entertain any thoughts of getting it on with him, I would have had to reinforce my colon, if you know what I'm sayin'.
That being said, had I been gay, I would have soon found myself lying face down in a locker room shower with my ruined and bloody ass having been torn asunder by some nameless descendent of Zues. Not exactly the kind of gruesome fate I face as a straight man. Not being gay has literally saved my life this week.
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Y~!