I’m okay with the gays, if you’ve ever wondered. I know I addressed this to some extent when I wrote about the whole John Amaechi affair, but that was more in terms of channeling my familiarity with alpha-male-dominated environments in a half-assed attempt to offer the reality-based treatment I thought the situation deserved after the NBA’s Tim Hardaway nerve was so “shockingly” exposed.
Really, though, homosexuality is fine. It’s fine because I’m completely unfamiliar with it. To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t know any gay people. I mean, I can name two that might recognize me walking down the street, but I haven’t seen either in years. Other than them – and my gay cousin who died back in the eighties – I couldn’t tell you the name of a single homosexual, male or female, that I know personally. Of course, there could be someone I don’t know about, but that’s the point here. I don’t know, so I can’t say.
I’m sure there are a handful where I work, but nobody’s “out” – at least not that I’m aware of - and I couldn’t give two shits anyway.
That said, I’m not about to dispute the “ten percent” theory, I have no idea whether homosexuality is biologically determined, and I doubt I’ll be hosting a gay wedding in my backyard anytime soon. It’s not my problem, quite frankly. If one of my friends told me he was gay, I wouldn’t care. This isn’t because I’m particularly tolerant or enlightened, mind you. In reality, it’s because I honestly don’t give a flying crap what my friends do with their spare time. Unless someone owes me a large sum of money and is refusing to pay, I’m not big on the whole hatred thing when it comes to people for whom I’ve developed some modicum of respect.
Homophobia, it’s not. I’m too busy working for a living to worry about this shit. Homolassitude is more my speed. It’s simply not a part of my sphere. Still, I was taken somewhat aback by the conversation that ensued following a “favor” I did – unpaid, I might add – for a pair of customers I found wandering around in an area of the club where they weren’t supposed to be. They’d slipped through the door leading to an off-limits hallway – attempting to blend with a group of VIPs of which they weren’t a part – and were making their way to one of the club’s employee bathrooms.
“Hey,” I called. “You guys aren’t supposed to be in here.”
The girl, petite and sandy-haired, turned around in apparent surprise at having been discovered. The guy, a thin Hispanic wearing a black blazer and sunglasses, slowed somewhat but kept moving toward the bathroom. I walked down the hallway after them, waving to the ceiling cameras to show whomever was watching – someone’s always watching - that I intended to take care of the problem.
“This isn’t part of the club,” I said, addressing them both. “You gotta go back up front.”
“The guy up front said we could come back here and use the bathroom,” said the girl.
“The bouncer outside the door.”
“I’m the bouncer outside that door,” I said, “and I didn’t send anyone back here. And when we send people back here, two things happen. First, they pay, because this is our bathroom, not yours. And second, if a bouncer tells you it’s okay to come back here, he has to come with you.”
“Can we just go use it really quick, then?”
I glanced at the man, who was pacing in tight circles with his hands in his pockets. “I’ll let you use it on one condition.”
“I need you to just admit that you’re full of shit and that you snuck through the door, and that you blatantly lied to me.”
“Lied about what?” she asked, extending her arm and pointing to her male friend. “He’s gay.”
“So? What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t lie in front of gay guys? Gay guys don’t lie? What?”
“Honey, he’s gay. We’re not coming back here to have sex.”
I smiled. When I did, she smiled back. “I didn’t think you were,” I said. “That’s why I didn’t know what the hell you were just talking about.”
“It’s okay,” she said, rubbing my forearm up and down in consolation.
“Still doesn’t change the fact that you tried to sneak past me.”
“So what do you need?”
“You know what?” I asked. “All I really want is a thank you. That’s all. Just some kind of acknowledgement that I’m not a piece of furniture.”
With that, she put her hands on my shoulders and jumped, wrapping her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist, then proceeded to engage in a rather vigorous round of dry-humping with my belt buckle. She then kissed me on the cheek and slid back down. “Thanks, baby.”
The man took a step toward me, but I motioned for him to stop. He stood with his hands on his hips.
“You,” I said, grinning, “don’t get a turn.”