Are You Gay Yet?
“So, now that you’re back from San Francisco,” began Monte, my family’s long time therapist, “are you gay?”
I nearly choked on my Diet Coke. “Uhm—what?” I spend a weekend with homosexuals, and then just wake up one day as a flaming bull dyke in a plaid Home Depot flannel? I don’t think so.
My mother glanced over at me. “Yeah, are you?”
I slugged back another swallow of my diet soda. “No, not yet. I haven’t caught the gay just yet. I’ll let you guys know when I start sweating glitter, or whatever.”
He shook his head, “that’s not what I mean, Casey,” he said, “I mean, some people start living the lifestyle later.”
The lifestyle? I had been living the gay lifestyle as long as I could remember. My childhood idol was Cher, for Gaga’s sake.
My mother sat back in her chair, probably fully enjoying the fact that someone else shared in her lesbian suspicions. I tried, once again, to efficiently explain my lack of a sexuality, but to no avail. Clearly he could not wrap his head around the idea. He argued that indeed, I have a sexuality, and not only do I have it—I flaunt it. Like basically, my sexuality is so in-your-face that you can smell White Diamonds in the air an hour after I’ve left the building. “It’s in the way you carry yourself,” he said, “It’s in the way you dress, it’s in the way you write.”
I mean, just because I like to talk about sex doesn’t mean I have to have sex…does it?
And just because I dress like somebody someday might want to fuck me doesn’t mean we have to…do we?
I shook my head to rid my brain of the questions. “I just don’t care,” I shrugged.
The room fell silent. “…don’t care?”
I nodded, “About sex. About anything. I mean really—who cares?”
Monte and my mother have yet to be convinced of my asexuality.