A long-ago Ex invited me along to a studio opening a couple of months ago. He told me beforehand he wanted to introduce me to some "age-appropriate gays". The jealous bitch. I am getting this a lot lately, even from my favorite druncle! They all want me to settle down and get pairied.
Why are you still single? They ask.
Um, because I'm a whore. A cuddlewhore, weeheeheeeee, but still!
I mention this intervention here for two reasons: to brag, because it’s a sausagefest at Chez Realrealdeep right now -- it's like I live in a churrascaria; and I forget the other reason. Oh! For you to feel sorry for me because I can’t stuff all the sausages into my face, and when I try I end up with a tummy ache! Waaaaaa! It’s not faaaaiiiiiiiiirrrrr!
Don't blame the victim.
Anyway. So, because I’m very elusive and mysterious and don’t go out to the one gay club in town all these bitches go to, it was like I was a visiting dignitary to Gayslutistan, Limited Engagement, One Night Only. And I made it count. I SPARKLED. I was like Celine Dion on speed.
In retrospect, I probably oversparkled.
Like, I did make at least one diplomatic faux pas. I ID’d someone as a bear who was obviously a bear but turns out doesn’t self-identify as one. Good grief, gays. If you're going to be all complicated and picky about what people call you you might as well just come on out as a lesbian.
But the way it went down was funny. We were talking about our previous weekend shenanigans, and he said he had been down in old Provincetown. He didn’t mention it but the previous weekend had been the grizzly climax of Bear Week on the Cape.
So, anyway, when he was like, yeah, I was in PTown, I was obviously like, oh, of course you were!
He took a step back and gave me a look. It was a very beary look, if you want to know. And he says: “Why ‘of course’?”
I thought he was joking. But he asked me again, so I said, “uh, Bear Week? Duh.”
He rolled his beary eyes, and sighed bearishly, and said, “oh, I don’t identify as a bear.”
It was like Winnie-the-Poo with his hand in the honey pot saying, yeah, no, I'm, like, a muskrat. No. Worse. It was like an ACTUAL TALKING BEAR telling me he doesn’t see himself as a member of the species he is obviously the most perfect, delightful specimen of. Like, if I had had a shotgun, and was a hunter, I would have shot him and had him stuffed and thrown in an elaborate diorama right there on the spot. He was like the mother of all mother bears.
I was like: bitch, you don’t have a choice. I actually said that.
The truth is, as I came to find, his spirit animal was a big vagina. He should count himself lucky he's a bear-shaped vagina, is all I can say.
The moral of this story is: You have a whole week to yourselves in PTown. There's no Wolf Week. There's no Otter Oliday. Fuck off and be a bear about it! Terrorize campers! Climb trees! Lap up that honey! Eat that fish!
Hey, wait. Fish? Has anyone noticed the whole gay animal code is whack?