The other night at work, the dark chocolate bartender accused me of being heterosexual.
The entire situation went down as I was polishing wine glasses with a little too much vigour. Pride week had just ended the night before and intrigued, the gorgeous drink dispenser asked me what kind of debaucherous all-night sex fests I had got myself in the middle of.
Resting the wine glass down on the counter before I snapped it in half, I admitted to him the inconvenient truth that, each night of the festivities I had gone to bed with a girl.
“Heterosexual!” he exclaimed, pointing his wine crank at me, violently.
“Ah!” I screamed, taking one step back, girlishly.
"How dare he call me straight!"Horrified I stood frozen behind the bar. For a second I thought I was going to be tarred and feathered, and then for another second I wondered whether I’d actually enjoy it. His eyes piercing mine, his wine crank still pointing at me (violently), I feared my cork was going to be popped unless I defended my gay honour. And so having run out of time I did the one thing I know best - I raised the white polishing rag in my hand up above my head and submitted.
Arriving home later that night at a feverish twelve o’clock, I felt a wave of anger surge over me. Shooting back a 10 ounce glass of red wine to calm myself, I started pacing around the three-square-feet of free space in my apartment also known as my living room.
“How dare he call me straight!” I hissy-ed, “especially after I just spent two c-notes on this pair of jeans to ensure there would be no confusion.”
Continuing to fit, I polished off the rest of the bottle of wine and proceeded directly to my fridge to pop open a night cap. Reaching for a lone bottle of beer, I screamed when I realized what I was about to do. Slapping myself on the hand, I thought, this is no time for masculinity, and grabbed a raspberry vodka cooler instead.
Taking one sip of the fruity beverage, I began to feel emasculated again when I noticed a horrific site hanging on my walls.
Filling the empty space just above my desk were four picture frames. Four picture frames of terror. Aghast, I tugged my eyes from one 5x10 to the next. Each photograph featured a reproduction of me standing beside a gorgeous woman. Taking another sip from my drink, I could barely breathe when it hit me that, to date, the greatest relationships in my life have been with, dare I say it, dare I use another comma, women.
My head so light it could float away, my body so heavy it could fall through the floor, I moved out of the kitchen and into my bedroom and collapsed upon my twelve-hundred-thread-count Ralph Lauren sheets. My vision bursting into a million stars, I rubbed my eyes and saw the thought shoot cross my mind, I am the worst homosexual I know.
Falling to the floor, I got up on my knees and cried out to the heaven’s above, “Oh Meryl Streep! Could it be that I left one closet for another?”
For six years now, I have been trying to get to the bottom of (tee hee) what defines a gay man. If the number one marker is sexual intercourse, then I am afraid I am out.
It is no big secret that as far as same-sex-sex goes, I do not have a lot of it. (Editor's note: It is no small secret either.) The fact that I will be able to donate blood again soon does not bode well for my gay reputation. Truth is, while the hockey team was busy sleeping with each other in high school, I was trading Spice Girl stickers with my first girlfriend and asking her how 2 did become 1.
Before I depress myself into a state of vagina relapse, I have some good news to report. Ever since I moved out to the West Coast fourteen months ago, I have managed to get to the bottom of at least one thing (tee hee – alright that is enough). After gossiping with my fair share of boys and girls in this province, I have learned that it is not who you sleep with that defines you; it is what the other person says about you the next day to their flaming best friend over coffee that really counts.