Well, it happened again. A straight female colleague of mine, a recently divorced senior back in the dating pool, decided I’m her BGFF (best gay friend forever). As such, I am now worthy of her confidence. I listened with empathy as she recounted her dating woes. “All men want is sex,” she sighed. “Any port in a storm,” I thought. She pined for romance, flowers and long walks along the lake. “Good luck with that,” I thought.
It’s all good. It comes with the territory. Still, there’s a bit of a double standard here. We’re all familiar with the line, “Alright, you’re gay, and we love you for it, just don’t tell us about the icky stuff.” Yet, almost any woman, it seems, the moment she finds out you’re gay, instantly makes a true confession of very personal insider info. It’s often TMI, as they say. She’ll vividly detail everything from her husband’s or boyfriend’s sexual shortcomings to her menopausal hot flashes. Men, too, seem more inclined to reveal private personal details to their gay buds than have a normal conversation. I know it’s a guy thing, but talk about “icky” stuff! Honestly, I’d rather gush with a guy over Jordy Nelson.
And while I’m at it, when it comes to same-sex public displays of affection, there’s another double standard. Last year the NFL’s first out draft pick Michael Sam, in his exuberant moment of triumph, kissed his boyfriend. It didn’t go down well. Then, allegedly in the name of cinematic artistic subtlety, a same-sex sex scene was cut from the Oscar-winning film The Imitation Game (the one about the gay English mathematician Alan Turing, who broke the Nazi’s unbreakable Enigma code).
It seems LGBT equality, which is, after all, about our sexual orientation, grinds to a screeching halt when it gets to the sexual part. Mind you, it may just be our innate American sense of Puritan prudery founded in our colonial roots. I curated an art gallery at the nascent LGBT Community Center back when it opened on Court Street. I had to adhere to certain parameters. Actually, there was just one: no male nudity. Of course, female nudity was fine. Despite the irony, I complied. I didn’t have a choice. But I did hang a rather explicit painting of the Hindu goddess Kali with her bloody life-giving “flow” directly across from the always open door of the director’s office. I hope he appreciated the view.
Then there was the local theater critic who cringed through Robert Chesley’s play, Jerker, put on by the Boulevard Theatre. His review blathered on about his straight discomfort at the explicit gay sex. The show’s publicity clearly warned of its mature content. He went anyway. Afterwards he apparently felt it necessary to declare and defend his heterosexuality to avoid any guilt by association. He protested a lot.
Anyway, when next you’re entertaining your wife’s BGFF, just remember: He knows everything about you. They’ll probably exchange knowing glances, and a titter or two. And, by the way, she thinks you’re gay.
