You Never Can Tell
Straight talk on gay stereotyping
My mother-in-law claims she can tell that a man is gay even if he doesn’t know it himself.
How presumptuous. How preposterous!
How can a stranger’s perception of stereotypical flamboyant or effeminate mannerisms trump the target’s own truth?
Not that it’s anyone’s damn business. If a man’s got a wife and kids, chances are he’s not hiding in his closet — just in his man cave, so as to get some respite from the racket.
I know two straight men who are repeatedly tagged with the lavender letter: the Big G, with attendant curlicues and flourishes for good measure.
One of these men jousts the raindrops wielding a purple umbrella sprinkled with sparkly pink butterflies.
The other out-dresses a drag queen decked out for club night, despite that he garbs himself in — royal blue-and-gold—kingly attire (cape included).
Umbrella man is puzzled by the jeers hurled at his butterfly bouquet. To him, it’s just a colorful canopy to cheer a dreary day.
G. Q. Spiffy, on the other hand, is amused — and unsurprised — at the reactions he garners. He shrieks after the gawkers with glee: And I’m an interior decorator to boot!
Both Butterfly Guy and Designer Dude are married — happily or otherwise — with children.
The couples often double up—for the purpose of trivial, not erotic, pursuits.
The men’s eyes catch each other’s on occasion — during their brief stop on the way to leering discreetly at the other’s wife’s Tees-and-Assets.
Last year, whilst out walking, I met a fellow named John, with whom I’ve since occasionally fallen into step.
There is nothing blatant about John that would trigger the “gaydar” of the so-called cognoscenti.
I inferred that John is gay only on account of his frequent references to the persistent bias against homosexuals.
A psychotherapist, John is rightfully outraged by the continuing discrimination against gays, even 30-plus years post-revocation of their designation as “suffering” from a psychiatric disorder.
John is 68; he has no children. On our walks, John mentions what “we” did over the weekend, what “we” plan to prepare for Thanksgiving, where “we” will be spending Xmas.
I refrain from asking John to name his partner-in-we; I’ve long assumed him to be Larry, his daily walking companion.
Larry, about John’s age, has a high pitch to his voice, an “unmistakable” sign to the crystal gazers, those pseudo psychics who claim to scry the sexuality of strangers.
Yesterday, as I walked my usual route, I came upon John and Larry on the stoop of what I knew to be John’s house.
They greeted me warmly, as always.
“Today’s our anniversary,” announced Larry, smiling at John. “45 years.”
John, beaming, echoed Larry’s words: “45 years…
“… Quite a coincidence, Larry! That you and Laura got married in ‘72 — same as me and Jane.”