Since college, I've learned, through other
people's confessions, that I have a built-in
Gaydar-jamming device. For those unfamiliar
with what a Gaydar is, munch on these
chocolate-covered pretzels and read on.
It's
what many people believe is their innate ability
to tell if someobdy else is gay. Granted, in
some cases, it's a no-brainer, but folks like me
are a Gaydar's Bermuda Triangle.
Well,
why, then, you not-a-butch-dyke type person
<snicker snicker>?
I've
got some clue about it. I never wear skirts,
dresses, fancy shoes, or makeup, and the only
thing I do to my long, straight hair is brush
it. Okay, and shampoo it. I guess
basic hygiene is kind of important. I've got
a dumpy, unfeminine body, but did manage to lose
the huge tracts of land that made up the wrecking
balls that were my breasts. Alas, not
through proper diet and exercise, but the work of
a surgeon. Men, before you groan about
another one biting the dust (or the pathologist's
lab, in this case), rest assured that the size and
shape of my gazongas made them better suited as a
visual gag in a really crude teen comedy, and not
the object of ANYONE's fantasy. Trust me on
this.
Nope.
Don't shave my legs, either. You guessed
correctly, sirrah. But there's a practical
reason for that: I never wear shorts.
Ever. It could be 100 degrees out, and my
whole leg will be covered, thank you.
Why? Well, for one thing, my legs tend to
get quite bloated around the ankles. Two,
they're so covered with permanent bruises and
scars from getting ripped open repeatedly in the
last decade or so, well... best not to subject
anyone to the sight of them. Hey, I'm just
being considerate here.
Other
stuff that screws up the Gaydars:
-
Mm.
Oh, yeah. I've got a deep voice for a
chick. Especially on the phone.
Although I've never been mistaken for a man in
person (especially not during the Decades of
the Huge Tracts of Land), I'm pretty much used
to being "Sir'ed" by strangers on
the phone. Only once in my life has this
really messed anything up for me, and that's
when a celebrity called me after I wrote a fan
letter, then got confused because he was
convinced that "some guy" answered,
and decided that he'd reached the wrong
number. Aye, celebrities are a
superstitious and cowardly lot. But I'm
over that.
-
No,
I'm not. I can't believe he hung up on
me, thinking it was a wrong number!! I
CAN'T BELIEVE IT!
-
I
feel better now.
-
Chick
stuff? What's that? I've never
understood the appeal of typical gifts for
chicks like flowers, candy, jewelry, and
having meals paid for. I really, really,
really hate it when men try to pay for
anything for me unbidden. Years ago,
when I was stuck at the front desk for a small
company, some solicitors came by and started
babbling about how all us women in the area
could get a special offer on being
"pampered" by whatever company they
represented. I asked, quite sincerely,
if by "pampering," they meant power
tools. Er, no, they said.
Manicures and facials and stuff.
Bleah. Get out of our office!
But
enough speculation. For some reason, I'm not
gay. That's how a friend of mine
accidentally spat it out one night to a group of
lesbians, which immediately sent their Gaydars on
such a high setting, one could almost hear the
gears grinding as the Gaydar dishes popped out of
the tops of their skulls. For some reason,
she's still my friend. Yes, she really meant
to say something like "She's not gay, but
for some reason, people think she
is." Fair enough. The problem is
that Harvey Fierstein's Angels acted the rest of
the evening as though *I* had said that. I
felt like I was in a post-confession Ellen
episode until I left the party. Of course
they pounced on my friend's Freudian slip like
tomcats to catnip "'For some
reason...'?? What's wrong? Can't
decide? Would a toaster oven help you cross
over?" HA HA HA HA HA HA HA You know, I
hated the show Ellen. And I only
needed to watch one episode to form that opinion.
Imagine
spending an evening with a bunch of butch dykes,
their Gaydar dishes whirrrrring back and forth on
top of their heads, looking and listening for any
indication - any at all - that I was just itching
to be outed. Which might have been amusing,
except that I never brought up the subject;
my friend did, and yet I suffered the
consequences. Bleah.
Other
than that, I came away with a happy memory, which
was the unintentional homage to the scene in Jaws
where Hooper and Quint are showing each other
their scars. In this case, the dykes (and my
friend, who is also not gay for some reason) were
showing each other their tattoos. Then one
said to me, "Now show us yours!"
"Show you what?" I replied.
Ha! No body decorations for me.
The
first I heard about my jamming device was in
college. A friend told me of two individuals
whose Gaydars had malfunctioned in my presence -
something to which I was completely
oblivious. The first incident was when she
was talking about me to the general manager of the
dorm-like housing we lived in. He struggled
to remember who I was, then said, "Oh, yeah,
her. Kinda... dyke-like, isn't she?"
Another
sorry individual was my friend's roommate, who, I
was told, hated me because it was obvious to all
what I was, and she hated people who were gay, but
pretended they weren't. So as long as I
didn't "come out," I was on her shit
list. I was more confused upon learning this
than offended, but at the time it did explain a
lot, such as why she was so hostile to me whenever
I stopped by to visit my friend.
Incidentally,
that person who hated me was even more confused
about her sexual preferences than she believed me
to be, so maybe she was projecting, or some other
psychological term.
More
recently, I learned that a former coworker once
expressed his frustration to another that I
wouldn't "come out." To his
credit, though, he doesn't hate me for it.
Even
more recently, and openly gay coworker tried to
direct me to a "quaint little gay bar"
to aid me in my pursuit of the newest State
Quarters (at the time of this writing, Indiana and
Lousiana were released months ago, and I still
haven't seen them anywhere). It's possible
that in this case, he was just trying to be
helpful, but I think I'll wait it out before
scampering off to a quaint little gay bar just to
get new quarters. I don't even drink.
I
will state that I'm one of those who believes that
there's no such thing as being 100% straight or
100% gay. That's why card-carrying,
man-hating lesbos can still lust after handsome
celebrities. Tom Cruise's name comes up a
lot amongst them, I've noticed. Me, I'm
partial to Mark Lutz. As for chicks, I've
admitted to someone before - I don't remember whom
- that I'd "do" Sarah Michelle Gellar,
but only if she asked me. So even I am not
100% asexual, a classification that most
people refuse to acknowledge as a legitimate
preference. That being, none at all.
Not lusting after men or women, or anything else,
for that matter. But hey, that's their
childhood trauma and not mine.
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