LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
My Queer Life: Playing It Straight |
by Michael Thomas Ford |
I was once asked to appear on a television talk show to discuss why so many people in the gay community have a problem with bisexuals. When it was my turn to talk, I explained that a lot of gay people resent the fact that many bisexuals only consider themselves part of the queer community when they're in same-sex relationships, but when they're involved with people of the opposite sex they enjoy all the privileges that the appearance of heterosexuality affords. This went over very well with the large gay contingent in the audience, and the glamourous bisexuals on the panelall of whom wore leather and sunglasses for some reasonpouted because they knew they'd been found out.
Well, now I feel just the tiniest bit guilty. You see, I've been doing exactly what I accused those poor beleaguered bisexuals of doing. Sort of. I'm not sleeping with women or anything, but I confess that I'm not above letting people think that I am when it serves my purposes. It's all because of the sales clerk at J Crew. A few months ago I had to buy some clothes for an event I was attending, and I really didn't want to do it. I waited until the last minute and then dragged myself to the J Crew store because the models in their catalogs always look nice and I figured I really couldn't go wrong. As soon as I entered the store, however, the panic set in. There were too many different choices, too many colors and patterns and styles. I wandered around for a while, wondering what might go with what, and then it all became too overwhelming. I started to leave. But as I raced for the exit, I was accosted by a smiling young man with perfect hair, perfect teeth, and perfect clothes. He was clearly gay, and he knew how to dress. Normally I wouldn't talk to such a person because it would make me tense, but he was determined. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm Kyle. Can I help you with anything?" "I'm going to this thing," I said unhelpfully. "I need to wear something." Kyle looked me up and down. As usual, I was wearing old jeans, a flannel shirt, and work boots. I'd also thrown on a very worn and rather dirty canvas coat of the type favored by construction workers, and a baseball cap. Kyle took it all in and smiled again. "How about a suit?" he asked. I shook my head. "Absolutely not. I'd rather die." "Okay then," he tried again. "How about pants, a shirt, and a tie. Maybe even a jacket?" That sounded better, even though I suspected I was simply getting a suit in pieces. Besides, at that point I would do anything to get out of that store. It was bad enough having to buy grown-up clothes. Having a fellow queen see the true depth of my fashion ignorance was a humbling experience. "Do you have any idea what you might want?" asked Kyle hopefully. I shook my head. "I really hate shopping," I admitted. "I mean really hate it. You have no idea." Kyle nodded. "Let me guess, your girlfriend usually picks out everything for you." "Girlfriend?" I said, confused. "I'm sorry, your wife then. I didn't notice a ring, so I assumed you weren't married." It dawned on me then that Kyle thought I was straight. I started to laugh, and was about to correct him, when I was overcome by a horrible thought. He seemed to be enjoying helping out the poor straight guy with no fashion sense. I doubted he would be as enthused about dealing with one of his own who was just too stupid to pick out clothes by himself. "Oh, there's no ring," I said finally. It was true, if a tad misleading. Kyle beamed. "Well, then, I'll have to see what I can do for you," he said. That was when I discovered one of the only real benefits (that I can see) of heterosexuality. For the next hour, Kyle busied himself picking out clothes for me. He told me what pants looked the best, and what colors of shirts went with which ties. He fussed and straightened and buttoned until I felt just like one of the models in the catalog. He practically offered to come over and dress me the night of the event. When I left, loaded up with bags filled with clothes that all matched, he assured me that he'd had a wonderful time. I almost felt as if I should say, "I'll call you." What little bit of guilt I felt over duping Kyle faded when everyone complimented me on my wardrobe later that week. So what if he thought I was straight? I looked great. I confess that I've done this several times since then, with both male and female store clerks. Usually all it takes is me wandering into a store and looking around in a dazed manner. Inevitably someone comes along, takes me by the arm, and tells me exactly what I should be wearing. They all seem very eager to help out the befuddled man whose wife or girlfriend has left him to dress himself, and who am I to ruin their joy? Just last week a charming young man spent a good twenty minutes picking out the perfect underwear for me. I can't tell you how relieved I was not to have to do it myself. Deciding between the jersey boxers and the button-fly shorts was more than I could handle alone. Maybe I am a traitor to the cause. Maybe I'm just as horrid as those leather-wearing bisexuals hiding behind their sunglasses. I don't care. For the first time in thirty-one years I match, and that's all that really matters in life. Michael Thomas Ford is the Lambda Literary Award-winning author of Alec Baldwin Doesn't Love Me and That's Mr. Faggot to You. He can be reached at Shopiltee@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 9, No. 15, Nov. 24, 1999 |