Gay Thoughts

I have natural proclivities for homosexual tendencies; I like fashion to the point where I own more clothes than most girls I date.  I have a jewelry tree, ladened with accessories.  I own more rings than I have fingers and toes.  I wear a headband.   I like musicals, plural like I know the lyrics to most musicals and I can do both halves of the male-female duets.  I like Taylor Swift just a little too much.  My favorite bar is a gay bar.  I’m small and lithe, and was never particularly good at sports.  And the list goes on of stereotypes and archetypes for what a gay man is.

So I thought to myself, “What if I’m gay?”

I had a prostate exam a few years ago, and I realized there’s a reason so many men die from skipping this particular appointment.  Even if there was wine and dancing and good conversation, I can’t think of a scenario where I’d particularly enjoy something in me again.  So I thought maybe I could be a giver and not a receiver.  So I tried to imagine my potential gay lover.

He’d have to be smaller than me, because if he were bigger he’d probably bend me over.  At least I think that’s how these things work.  For some reason I imagine two gladiators circling round and round.  Like fresh caught crabs in a bucket opening and closing their one massive claw as they size each other up, circling, each unwilling to present their vulnerable back to the other.  Yeah that sounds about right.

Besides those hairy burly barrel chested guys never really struck me as attractive.  i’d want him thin, and smooth skinned.  Maybe with long silky black hair. I’d want him to have delicate high cheek bones, and a soft spoken voice, and big doey eyes.  I’d want his collar bones to protrude from the top of his blous… I mean shirt.   And I’d want him to smell of fresh cut flowers, and to taste like honey.  And then I’d bend him over and grab his supple breasts… and that’s where the imagination ends.  Because really, I want what I want. Hardwired into me, call it instinct or biology– I want a woman.

Because vaginas are a beautiful magical mystery to me.  They are the prize at the end of the pubescent marathon I’ve been running since I was fourteen.  They are soft and delicate, hidden under lace and denim.  Eager hands grasping upskirts, only exposed to me in the most intimate of moments.  But butts (haha), I have one of those.  And I know what happens with tacos and hot sauce or a binge night of beer drinking.  I know what it’s like to drop coils of soft-serve-disgusting into the porcelain bowl.  I know what it’s like to exclaim “Hey corn, I remember eating that!”

Butts, not for me.

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