It was odd. I usually don't have to make any announcements about my sexuality. People usually just catch on.
I'm not a flaming queen by any means. My mannerisms and demeanor are perfectly masculine, or at the least androgynous. No one would mistake me for Paul Lynde in a million years, despite my ostentatious sunglasses (or am I thinking of Charles Nelson Reilly?). I don't have a lisp, I don't refer to gay guys as 'she,' and I don't own any tshirts with bland witticisms like '2 QT 2 B ST8.'
My downfall-- my gay Achilles' heel, if you will-- is in my walk.
Let me begin by prefacing that I say this in the most modest way possible; believe you me, if anything, I have far too little confidence in my body, but no one wants to hear about how I think I'm fat. I mean, I'm below what I should weigh by a lot, but I still see flab. But that's enough of that. Despite any qualms I may have with my body, I am able to acknowledge my strength.
I have badonkadonk. I have the junk in the trunk, dumps like a truck with thighs like 'what!', juice in the caboose, cushions for the pushing, an itty bitty thing with a round thing in your face, I'm a fine motherfucker who can back that azz up, I'm a big bootied bitch, ad infinitum.
In the words of Jessica Rabbit, "I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."
No, this isn't a pretentious exercise to see how many booty references I can come up with. I'm just saying that I know my attributes, and I know how to work it. And so I do. We're talking Pendulum here: I walk like a cheap stripper.
It wasn't a conscious decision, but something I've realized and something that's been brought to my attention; most people, when they see me walk, they realize there's a bit too much swish in my hips for me to like girls.
There was a story here. A few nights ago, I hung out with my roommate's best friend, who was staying with me for the weekend. She had lost the key to her own room, and had to wait until Monday for her new key to be made. The roommate was out of town, singing at his cousin's wedding, so she slept over. We went to see the show on campus, "Spinning into Butter," which was poorly written but well-acted. Afterwards, she invited me along to meet a friend from her Psych class whom she was meeting for coffee.
So we went, and had a good time. I mentioned something, I forget what exactly, but I think it was something to do with hanky codes or polare, and she didn't realize I was gay. She freaked out. Not in a bad way--she grew up in a small town; her graduating class had 43 students, and she'd never met a 'gay' before who wasn't comedic relief on a bad 90s sitcom. She started asking me all types of personal questions, which I didn't mind. She was so wide-eyed and earnest, it was hard to say no.
After coffee, as the roommate's friend and I were walking back to my dorm, I commented on how that was the first time that I'd come out to someone in a long while. She responded by comparing me to Will on Will & Grace, how I wasn't really GAY in capital letters, I was gay but not flamboyant, etc.
Then, when we were walking up the stairs to my room, she was a few paces behind me and commented on how my ass just wouldn't quit; it was mesmorizing, like a perpetual motion machine. She called it a 'swinging ball thingee that's on people's desks, and they're metal, you know?'
And that's when I realized why most people assume that I'm gay.
