Philsy, are you queer, boy?

I slept with a woman, recently. (It happens.) We both also happened to be tipsy. She had a boyfriend. I had naught, except more years of wear and tear. She wanted to cuddle. I cuddled. She had lovely parts I wanted to explore. I couldn’t.

Then, she asked, “Are you gay?”

“What? No! Why do you ask?”

“I mean, it’s OK if you are.”

“Gee, thanks, and NO!”

“You’re sure? Nothing wrong with it, you know?”

“These things you have—a few here, a few there—I like these things. I want to squeeze them lots, hence I’m hetero.”

“If you say so.”

At this point, you might expect that her query was a dare, which I accepted. Then, I tore the clothes from her, and proved I’m strictly non-dickly.

Nope.

Why does being a gentleman get misinterpreted as a sign that I am unstimulated and uninterested in girlie goodies? Worse, this gets taken a step further as a likely indication of gaiety.

I guess it could be worse. She could take it personally and be devastated that I find her unattractive. Then, she could cry and dampen my pillow with her salty, low self-esteem. Once inebriated, I’m not the best therapist. While she is quite adorable, tears are always unattractive.

Even my Tito’s soaked brain can process the indications, though not quite accurately, it seems. As she curled into fetal position and backed her posterior against my fronterior, I agonized over my options.

  • Be a good boy. Cuddle for a few minutes. Quietly sneak downstairs and make her a latte. Wish her a good day. Send her on her way. Go back to bed and make belly puddles thinking about what should have been. Lie there unlaid and empty.
  • Begin caressing her while paying attention to her breathing patterns. If they speed up and deepen, proceed. Slide hand under shirt. Note progress. Breathing heavier? Undo top button on her jeans. Any elbows? No. Thank the heavens and proceed.
  • Go straight for it. She called you gay. Show her non-gay. Throw lesbian porn on the flat screen, take out the vibrating toys, dive on top of her, remove her clothing, and don’t stop until she has three orgasms and requests a bag of ice.

Alas, I am an ass—a straight ass—so I did nothing more than cuddle.

My cowardice haunts me.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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