I try to be patient with heterosexuals. Really, I do. I try to remember that it’s just as hard for them to understand why I salivate every time Cher releases a new CD, as it is for me to understand why they insist on wearing socks with sandals. I admit, I’m stereotyping. I have seen a few men at the Blue Moon wearing ankle socks with Birkenstocks and my ex-sister-in-law was a Cher freak, too. But admit it—every queer’s patience runs a little thin from time to time, living in a world with so many heterosexuals.

I don’t believe that the greatest difference between queers and heterosexuals lies in sexuality or love. If you think about it, we all do basically the same things in bed—we kiss, we touch, we put this thing in that hole. And no matter what Pat Robertson or any bitter queen would have you believe, there are just as many kinky heteros as there are kinky queers. (I have an on-line personals ad, and I’ve done some research here.) Regarding love, I’ve had enough men and women of both sexual orientations have me over to meet their new baby or pet, invite me to marriages and commitment ceremonies, and cry on my shoulder to realize that love is love is love.

So perhaps we differ by one chromosome in the areas of sexuality and love, if that much, but the real difference must come from the gene that determines personal taste. I have never met a gay man who doesn’t know the chorus to at least one Broadway ditty. I don’t care if he does wear a jockstrap to bed and considers “straight-acting” (whatever that means) a prerequisite for a potential romantic partner. My brother and father wouldn’t know Rogers and Hammerstein if they descended from the musical heavens and sprinkled fairy dust on their heads. Show me a lesbian who doesn’t know the chorus to some Indigo Girls song, and I’ll show you a poor excuse for a poseur. Ask a straight woman who the Indigo Girls are, and she’ll probably reply, “Didn’t they sing back-up for the Ink Spots?”

It’s not just music, but that’s a big part of the cultural picture. After all, music is probably the oldest and most traditionally honored art of expression. At a recent performance at the Renegade, comedian Bob Smith related a telling story. Once, while performing for a mixed crowd, a heterosexual heckler queried, “So what’s this thing gay people have with Judy Garland?” “So what’s this thing straight people have with Elvis?” Bob retorted. Hee hee.

I don’t know if gay people and heterosexuals will ever fully understand each other, but it’s sure as hell lots of fun trying. The quickest way to communication, compassion, and healing emotional and cultural wounds is simply to put yourself in the other person’s shoes, even if it is a pair of size 14 sequined pumps. In college, I presented numerous dorm programs on LGB issues. After a brief introduction and the first round of audience questions, most of which were ignorant but innocuous, we arrived at my favorite part of the presentation—handing out “The Heterosexual Questionnaire.”

The list of questions, with plenty of room to write in the same detailed answers heterosexuals expect from us, went like this: When did you first realize you might be heterosexual? At what age did you first experience heterosexual feelings? Do you think that you could change your heterosexuality? Why do heterosexuals feel the need to flaunt their sexuality? Can’t you just keep it in the bedroom where it belongs? What do heterosexuals do in bed? Is it true that heterosexuals promote their lifestyle by recruiting? Do you want children? If so, don’t you worry that your heterosexuality will affect your children? Do you feel that your heterosexuality is biological or psychological? Why did you choose to be heterosexual? If only as a jab at my first therapist who clung to Freud like alfredo sauce to a noodle (head), I always wanted to add for the heterosexual men, Do you believe that your heterosexuality was caused by a domineering father and a distant mother?

I do get a kick out of heterosexuals who are trying their darndest to be supportive but fall just a little short of the mark without even realizing it. My workplace, for instance, is wonderful, and I could not ask for a better bunch of heterosexual women with whom to exchange make-up tips and recipes. Still…one of them once commented to me about her significant other, “I try to get him to be open-minded, but he just doesn’t understand your lifestyle.” Which lifestyle is that? I’m just homosexual. I’m not weaving baskets and skinning drums in a commune. “I argued with my mother about this issue,” another co-worker confides, “and she’s in her seventies and so old-fashioned.” What, they only started making gay people after she had solidified her life philosophies? What about Socrates and Lesbo? Not even Country Time lemonade is that old-fashioned.

The most amusing part of this funny little theoretical rift between homosexuals and heterosexuals is that I don’t even believe it exists. Sexuality is completely fluid, but modern social mores and conditioning dictate a stunting dichotomy. After all, how many heterosexuals or homosexuals do you know who really accept the idea of bisexuality?

Ultimately, sexual labels are no more real than the man in the moon or the man behind the curtain. It’s just a psychological game we play because we’re all scared of our sexuality to some degree. I suppose the key to happiness lies in finding a happy medium somewhere between Susie Sexpert and Pat Robertson, not telling anyone else what they should or shouldn’t feel or do, and—of course—keeping a sense of humor about it all.

Eric can be reached at eric.a.morrison@verizon.net. Send him a message, and he’ll get back to you as soon as he finishes reading his copy of “So What If It Is a Choice?”