Flying Under the Gaydar

Gay men love me. It's like they catch a whiff of my Metrosexual airs and it causes a dramatic chemical reaction, like Mentos mints dropped into a soda bottle, of unsolicited attention. It's almost like I'm emitting some signal that causes their Gaydar to get scrambled. I'm not a homophobe by any means; in fact, my disdain of machismo fashion (baggy pants, baseball caps, sports jerseys) and manly sports like American football - combined with a keen interest in elitist/fey sports like tennis, melodic pop music, and films with subtitles - puts me firmly in the aforementioned "Metrosexual" camp. But just because I don't wear a Ravens cap with a Hooters t-shirt and baggy cargo pants doesn't mean I'm "incoming" on your Gaydar screens, fellas!

Craig's List
Just a couple of weeks ago at a "First Thursday" event in Mt. Vernon, "Craig," a total stranger, walked up to me, handed me his card (it said simply, "Craig"), offered me a joint (I declined this golden opportunity to say, "No thanks, I'm straight") and, when I gave him the cold shoulder and walked away, leaned over and said, "Well at least give me a kiss" and licked my neck! Ewwwww! Call me funny about unsolicited bodily secretions, but I felt violated. To quote Hall & Oates, Your kiss is on my list - of the worst things in life!

Pointe/Counterpointe
Then this Saturday at the bookstore, an obviously gay man walked over to me and held up a ballet book, while saying, "This book is written by a man considered to be a great dancer."

Startled, and confused at why he had picked me out of the crowd to discuss this book, I muttered, cleverly, "Um, really? Hmmm, don't know much about it." "Yes," he continued, "But look at the cover!"

He held up a cover depicting a grainy black and white photo of a foot.

"It's a foot," I deduced.

"Yes but it's supposed to be a foot on pointe!" he said disgustedly. "Do you call that on pointe?" I believe he made a dismissive sound next that I can only translate as "Hmmmppphhtt!"

Why me, Ballet Boy? Out of everybody in the store that day, I was singled out as the person most likely to be share his indignation over poor ballet form. Instead I just said, "Oh well, it's just a cover. Maybe the publisher couldn't get the rights to a professional dancer's foot?"

That seemed to satisfy him and he walked away, adding "Any dancer worth their salt would be ashamed of that foot!"

Hmmmppphhtt, indeed!