Coming Out


“Love what you do. Do what you love.” – Wayne Dyer

I’ve been inspired. NBA center Jason Collins has come out as gay in an essay he wrote for Sports Illustrated. What a brave thing to do, in today’s day and age. Much like when I see someone devour a medium-rare prime rib au jus, I can’t resist. I need to come out.

I … am … heterosexual.

There, it’s out. Gosh, I feel such relief already. You have no idea how hard it is to hide my love for boobs and vagina. I think of all the years I spent grooming myself, wearing cologne, listening to house music, and forcing myself to eat sausage. I, sadly, did it all to avoid awkward situations at the workplace and in social events. I consider myself a modern-day Jack Tripper. Did you know, Jack was a San Diego native? How fascinating! OK, I’m not a San Diego native, but I live here now and, did I mention how much I love bulbous woman ass?

I hope you appreciate this difficult thing I do–writing through my tears.

Don’t worry, there was no childhood trauma that sent me to the pink side. I was born a pussy lover. Sure, I didn’t realize it until a third-grade substitute teacher, Ms. Rizzo, lectured about multiplication tables, all while sporting an epic camel toe. (I believe that back in 1970 it was called a “vertical smile.” Camel toes are children of the 2010s.)

“OK, who knows what six times nine is? Phil?”

“Panty hamster.”

“What?! You go stand in the corner and think about what you said.”

“I can’t. I’m sporting wood, and if I think about it much longer, I might make cumsies in my slacks.”

I guess the writing was on the chalkboard.

Believe me, I tried to like cock. I stared at a few mushroom caps in the locker room, but they only made me crave Salisbury steak. I didn’t want to touch one, let alone sit on or swallow one. Ew. Even the butt thermometer creeped me out. If I were gay, I would have frequently faked a fever, and asked our handsome family doctor to check my temperature again, and again, and again, perhaps while stroking my Dutch-Boy doo, and singing Madonna’s “Crazy For You.”


It wasn’t meant to be.

Then, I discovered tits. Honestly, I wanted to love Tom Selleck’s hairy pecs. I distinctly recall watching Magnum P.I. while touching myself. I remained limp as warm saltwater taffy. Then came I Dream of Jeannie (and yours truly, all over my belly). Jeannie’s lovely lumps of libation made me hard as calculus. I so wanted to shrink myself, climb into that bottle, and sheesh kebab that annoying wink/tic right out of her.

All the social pressure I was feeling, made me question my desires as recently as last year during the Summer Olympics. I was glued to the TV while watching the men’s swimming events. I even lubed up both fists and stroked along with Ryan Lochte. No dice. At one point, my penis tried to impact itself in my abdomen. Thankfully, women’s beach volleyball came on, and all was well.

So, I’ll not fight my heterosexual tendencies any longer. Judge ye not. Accept me for who I am: a connoisseur of love tacos, not burritos.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.