Gay As A Unicorn

I was gonna write a post about some Christmas stuff, but I decided to write about being a big queer instead, which is sort of the same thing. There are many funny things that come with the sugary snack pack of being a fruity-pants, especially if you tend to non-stop work and socialize with people who are straight. Being the sort of person who doesn’t really go around telling everyone how gay I am, or putting rainbow stickers and patches on shit, sometimes people don’t know, don’t care, or forget that I’m addicted to vagina. Usually a person will find out by asking me if I “have a man” (seriously, I hate when people call their boyfriends or husbands their “man.” Stop doing this.) I usually reply to this question by saying, “no,” or if I’m feeling particularly sassy that day I’ll say something like, “I’m as gay as a unicorn.” It’s kind of the trend that once a person finds out the massive, big deal, jackpot of a revelation of what gender I prefer to sleep with, they’ll either try super hard to pretend that it’s not a fact, or flip it around and start talking about it and asking questions about really personal and awkward things as much as possible.

I keep thinking about this funny thing that happened to me the other day at work; this lady who’s sort of mental and always wide-eyed and freaking out about stuff loves to wear low-cut shirts and bend over at any opportunity so that her nipples are damn near on the floor. She did this right in front of me once and I held up my hand in front of my eyes and made a “I’m gonna barf” face. She looked at me all hurt and was like, “I’m pretty sure you like girls, so why are you acting grossed out and making me feel bad?” Moral of the story is that even if someone prefers their own gender, that doesn’t mean they prefer EVERYONE within that gender, because a hard core fact of life is that most everyone on the planet sucks.

Oh, here’s a little Christmas add-on: the only place I went shopping on Black Friday was Duane Reade, because I’m glamorous. On my way out of the store, a short, Hispanic gay man ran full-bodied into me and then asked me why I was getting crazy, and if I wanted to get spit in the face. So this crushes that myth that all queerions are like some happy cult that’s trying to convert you. We totes hate each other. Sometimes.

Cover Image: Vaguely Artistic