So I’m sitting here this morning, idly munching my toast with peanut butter and banana (mmmm …. delicious toast with peanut butter and banana … ), when up popped a little message off my Facebook page. It said, “Zaneta M. Delgadillo just answered the question ‘Do you think John Shore is straight?’ [What Did Zaneta Say].” That last part was a link.
My first thought, of course (after, “Why is there no question mark after ‘Say’?”—but that’s really just a punctuation dysfunction of mine), was to wonder what Zaneta did say. I didn’t follow the link to find out, because I sensed doing so would be the tap that finally shattered the delicate illusion that I have any life at all. And realizing you’re lifeless is more of a Monday morning thing, don’t you think?
I have never met Zaneta Delgadillo; she’s a complete stranger to me. Cool name, though! Her Facebook profile tells the world that Zaneta is a “Conservative Republican Christian.” Well, conservative Christian republicans know how to have fun, too. And apparently one of the things they do for fun is publicly wonder about the sexuality of others. In fact, they’re kind of famous for doing that very thing, aren’t they? (Note to my many dear conservative republican Christian friends: Kidding!)
I wonder what about my Facebook profile would lead anyone to wonder if I’m straight? The only Facebook group I’ve joined is “Fans of The Waffle House.” Maybe “Waffle House” is Facebook code for “bisexual”! You know: a waffler? Makes sense.
Either way, it works for me. I’m fifty. It’s been years since anyone wondered about my sexuality, publicly or privately. I think the last time anyone manifestly wondered about my sexuality was in 1979. I was in college. I was in the dorm room of a new friend, an African-American kid named Terry who was an excellent tennis player. I had come to pick him up (oh, stop it) on our way to playing some tennis together, and was sitting in his desk chair waiting for him to get ready. Suddenly he flounced across the room toward me, sat on my lap, and threw his arms around my neck.
“You are so cute!” he squealed. His face was micro-inches from mine. He had beautiful teeth.
“Um. Thanks,” I said. Pause. “And you’re a wonderful tennis player.” Another long pause.
Still perched daintily upon my lap, Terry said, “Oh. Well, this is awkward. Aren’t you gay?”
“No, I’m … I’m not. Sorry.”
He leaned back to more comprehensively appraise me. “But you have all those gay friends. All those gay black friends.”
“I … I guess I do. But I have lots of friends. Some of them aren’t gay black guys. Some of them are stoner lesbians.” I didn’t know what I was saying. I was nervous.
Terry went on to become a good friend of mine. We were married in April of ’82. (To my conservative Republican Christian friends: Kidding! Please don’t take me off your Christmas list. You’re my only friends who still have any money.)
Anyway, it’s always nice to hear that people are wondering about your sexuality. At least they’re thinking about you.
Follow-up post: Top 10 Signs I Might Be Gay
Related piece o’ mine: The Sexual Lives of Others: Like Catnip to Everyone—Even Christians.