Come to my Window
Politics, intrigue and scandal are a give-in at any good house party. Two years ago I cater-waitered a Christmas shin-dig on Winnipeg’s very own Wisteria Lane. Starting my shift at the office desk/open bar I soon moved into the living room where all the action was. With an underpaid smile and a tray of Costco-thawed spanakopita, I waded through the shallow waters that filled up the guest list. Within minutes I became privy to who preferred their scotch on the rocks and who was definitely not supposed to be downstairs feeling up the wife of a certain eighties rock star.
Gay house parties are no different. Aside from the regular drama that is always to be expected, “you told me you never slept with him!” // “what? you didn’t wait for me? but we always do the first line together!”, there are several other politics at play. We all know what happens when you put a pair of queens in the same room - one eats the other one or dies trying, but what happens when you match a Queen and King?
Well, I drank myself into the answer to that question this past summer at an intimate house gathering. Overthrown in conversation (and dare I say fabulousness) by a positively vivacious dyke, I watched my queendom slip away in less than two mojitos. While she ruled the dining room with an iron fist, I sat quietly in my seat and thought about how much that would hurt. As butch as I was flaming, she was the Melanie to my Emmett, the Stein to my Wilde, and before long I had no choice but to throw in the towel.
Retiring outside for a breath of fresh air later that night, I was slightly intimidated when she came to join me. Sporting a lesbian pair of Keds, she started to tell me about her existing girl problems: “Without fail, it seems that every time I start dating some lesbian within two days she wants me to move in, look after her cat, and then commit to her for life.” Listening to her rant, I could not help but dream of the man who would expect the same from me.
Wearing my brown loafers with no socks, I returned the conversation and relayed to her my frustrations with the male species: “Are you kidding? I can’t get a man to commit even if I pay him to! And move in? Totally out of the question!” I continued to tell her about the one time I checked the gay male dictionary and “commitment” was nowhere to be found.
CUT TO: Fox looking in the dictionary three months previous.
FOX: APPLETINI, ASS, BUTT, BUM, C*CK … COSMO, C*M, DOUCHE – did I miss it?
Looking back at her, I suddenly thought, “Oh my god, am I a lesbian?!” Then it occurred to me, we were both standing in the wrong pair of shoes. While I should’ve been settling down in her monogamy-riddled Keds, she should’ve been the one standing light my in loafers: spinning through the revolving door of men this city has to offer. Fearing this truth might collapse the fragile foundation of the sexual empires we had built ourselves on; we quickly finished our breaths of B.C. air and moved back inside.
So what happens when you match a King with a Queen? Well depending on the game and the hand you are dealt you either get nothing, or in my case, a whole lot of something.