July 2000

READING THE FLOWERS ON THE WALL

Dear wise and trusted readers;

I know this plea must seem strange, but I don’t know where else to turn. My normally strong and distant attitude makes this disclosure very hard for me. I fear that my boyfriend is a gay. Maybe just a transvestite or a drag queen or whatever. The signs all seem to be there, but I’m too scared to admit it. And how would I find out for sure anyway?? I guess I could hire a PI to follow him & his Russian "boyfriend" around, but that’s just not my style.

So, that brings me here – asking you, my readers, for help. As hard as it is for me, I’ll fill you in on the signs.

There’s a border of flowers displayed on his walls – mostly in pinks & yellows. He primps & preens everyday in the bathroom & uses more gel than all the hairstylists at the Butchery. But this gel fetish isn’t the worst of his bathroom time. He shuns soaps in favor of BODY WASH which he lathers on vigorously with a white scrunchy loofah. Pretty gay, right? Wait, there’s more.

When he hears exciting news, he titters and rapidly claps just the tips of his fingers in the queerest of all his effeminate motions.

The evidence is mounting as you can see, but the tale of woe is not over yet. Not near it. Keep your ass on the platform cause the gay train hasn’t left Soho yet!

He has black velvet tuxedo pants and has been known to wear metallic pink or leopard print bracelets. He even asked me to curl his eyelashes the other day! What’s a girl to do?? He was even eyeing a silk leopard print robe recently, but I thankfully steered him away from it.

It’s not just his appearance and grooming habits either. It’s just about everything. We go to 7-11 a lot, and yet he never fails to point out the greased-up hunky muscle men posing alluringly on the magazine covers. He told me that he’d like to be Nick Rhoads (from Duran Duran, y’know? The most brazenly painted, fluffed, and curled of the bunch.) – so that he could have his pick of all the sexy boys and only have to have ladies around for an occasional photo-op. These last two reasons put me over the edge. I knew I finally had to ask for help. Now even more so, since he came back from a weekend excursion with a pink triangle on his chest. He claims it’s sunburn, but I can’t believe his stories anymore.

I know I should have guessed a while ago. Back when I saw that picture of him in a red satin gown, drag queen blond hair, and make-up skillfully applied with an eye for seduction. I just wanted so badly to believe that this man – a man who BOTH READ AND WATCHED THE ENGLISH PATIENT – could be the one desirable straight man walking the earth. Was I naïve to hope that a could win the heart of a white guy who uses chopsticks, that I could find a man who would watch Ralph Fiennes movies without complaint? That a man such as him could be anything other than a gay??

Please, my faithful and trustworthy readers, tell me! What should I do? How can I find out for sure? And is it sick for me to want to stay with him anyway rather than face the fact that there’s not a good man to find?

Your fag hag,
Bigfoot