I”m not sure what it is with me and the men who are either gay, bi or just incredibly effusive but I seem to attract a disproportionate number of them. I have nothing against gay men or bi men or even men who are effusive however if you’re gay, I don’t have a dick. If you’re bi I don’t want to compete with 2 sexes, I am having enough trouble with younger women, women with better botox jobs, women with better boobs, women with carefully coiffed hair, women who don’t shop at H&M (you following? I could go on for a while here) and if you’re effusive, well, don’t take this wrong but you’re either really happy and from a borough with strong accents or you should be aware that that accent coupled flitting hand gestures and a singular joy for life is, at least in the New York Metro area, an indication of gay. I don’t know why. I’ve known gay men who spoke in a normal tone until they came out and then became very joyous. Bravo, I should be so lucky. Maybe they were surpressing their joy, anyway, this is not the point, the point is why do I keep getting asked to coffee by men like this. The answer is, I don’t really know. Is this me being crazy and critical – I won’t say it’s not possible – but let me elucidate by example.
I met Harry. We had spoken over the phone and he had a little of that, I don’t know how else to put it, gay inflection, but this is the tri-state area and frankly, it’s not that far off from certain Long Island accents so who knows. He was recently divorced. Lived in Brooklyn. Ok, so what’s coffee going to hurt. Nothing. I say this a lot and it hasn’t hurt yet if you don’t count emotional confusion.
So we meet. This guy is very, let’s say, artistic. Nice enough. Flamboyant, happy, relating why his wife left him. It just wasn’t there any more, no regrets, they are still friends, yadda yadda yadda. Ok. He apologizes for being tired as he was in the west village at a singing club belting them out last night. Show tunes. Not Karoake. I know the place, except it wasn’t this exact place but I know the type. The Duplex, I spent many a champagne Sunday at the Duplex, which at the time, was a tiny hole in the wall no-one-had-heard-of-bar on Barrow St. It was frequented by the artistic singing community, often many gay men and as we called them back in the day, fag hags. That’s probably no longer PC, or probably wasn’t back then either but that’s what they were. I was probably a bit of one myself since most of our friends were gay, thereby fulfilling the requirement. Neither here nor there now. We had a few friends who, by New York standards couldn’t make it here but they damn well sure could make it anywhere else. Let’s face it, the talent pool here is so vast and deep who can win? So the Duplex was filled with remarkable waiters, para legals, cabaret-wanna-bes, drag queens, one or two people who were likely all of the above, you get the idea. It was great fun especially after a few Proseccos commonly called bad free champagne back in the day. And when The Hills were Alive with the Sound of Music, so was everyone else, we all chirped in looking lovingly at each other because the hills weren’t just alive they were also often snow tinged with cocaine. But that was the 80s therefore the scene changed a tad – I like to call it another affect of global warming. Less snow.
So, let’s just say when this guy says he was singing show tunes in the village I have a pretty clear picture of where he was the night before. Still, who likes to be judgemental. Not me. Can’t you tell? So I’m going along with it. But really, here’s a guy who either is in complete denial or just figuring things out or I don’t know what but I’m pretty sure he’s not the next Mr. Me. Chit chat chit chat so he’s kind of lonely and recently gotten a pet. Pets are nice. I have 2. I have a love hate relationship with them both, more the latter than the former but they’re cute so I cut them some slack. So what kind of dog do you have? Dog? Oh no, not a dog, I have a weasel, he replies. A weasel, yes I’ve seen them in the park, on a leash. The ferrel rats laugh at them but who’s laughing when the weasel curls up in his warm cage with the flannel dog blanket from LL Bean, that’s what I’d like to know. And then I got the answer. The rats are laughing because this poor creature’s name is Mr. Fuzzy Bottom. I’m not making that up. I’m not even fudging the names to protect the innocent because there could be more than one of those in the city. It’s a big place and if you know a guy with a weasel by this name and he’s not gay then it’s not him and that proves my theory about more than one. If he is gay then there’s no harm because it if walks like a duck and quacks like a duck….it’s not a weasel.
Mr. Fuzzy Bottom. This brings up more imagery than even I can take.