[I sent this MS to a particular friend of mine this weekend. I think it might be appropriate, somewhat edited.]
[The other] night was a rare confluence of friends I don’t often see together. Two of them were my friend Chris #1, an American-Korean of traditional upbringing, and my other friend Chris #2, a Korean-American adoptee of “normal” American upbringing. Chris #1 is a Type-A battler, a hyper agressive guy who got himself torn up pretty bad when he brought his fists to a knife fight one night and has since moderated his outlook on life. Chris #2 is a Type-A battler, a hyper aggressive guy who became an Army Ranger and got his ass ambushed in that massacre in Somalia and has since moderated his outlook on life. Oh, yeah, Chris #2 is also a gay occasional-transvestite, and he wasn’t having a really good time because he was feeling a little bit out of his own pond. Chris #1 and Chris #2 have been accquaintences with a certain affinity for each another due to a shared background, but they don’t know each other very well.
So the three of us are beyond tipsy, ogling this particular bartendress, well, at least two of us were. Chris #2 suddenly says, “so, if I were straight, I’d think that girl was the cat’s ass?”
“Hell, yeah!” I say.
“What?” says Chris #1.
Chris #2: “You know, if I liked girls, I’d be all over that girl, right?”
Chris #1: “What?”
This focused line of questioning on the part of Chris #1 continued for some time, and the conversation got more confused until I finally broke in:
“What Chris is saying is that if he were a heterosexual, he would probably find that girl attractive.”
Chris #1: “What?! (to Chris #2) You’re gay?!”
Chris #2: “Hell, yes, didn’t you know that?”
Chris #1: “What?”
Never before have I seen a man’s entire world-view erode like Madonna’s labia at an Alaskan construction site. It was like watching someone go through the stages one experiences when confronted with his own death.
“You’re putting me on.”
“But you still like girls, don’t you?”
“Whose fault is it?”
“Man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you’re a fucking faggot–I mean, I didn’t know.”
In the meantime, Chris #2 and I were laughing to tears. Another friend, Chris #3, was in on the conversation, and was huffing so hard on his cigar that it glowed bright red–he’s known about Chris #2 for years. Poor Chris #1. He just couldn’t come to terms that fast.
Later, he excoriated me for not informing him. I pointed out that he had participated in numerous conversations where Chris #2 had admitted his proclivities, but Chris #1 had simply not noticed. That really pissed him off. Both eventually left, at different times, to pursue other venues. I staggered home, proudly sporting my Pussy Snorkel and matching T-shirt.
Addendum: if you’re ever confronted with your own death, I recommend you stay drunk, because Chris #1 appears to have regressed a few steps since sobriety hit him upside the head. Now he’s very apologetic because he thinks I’m gay, by association apparently. I was sitting next to C #2 at the bar, and I almost drowned in my pint glass when I was laughing. Q.E.D. I’m sorely tempted to fuck with this poor guy beyond the pale… but he’s my friend and I suppose I shouldn’t, unless I can document it on film somehow:
Story of a guy who might be gay but probably isn’t who’s confronted by a guy who definitely isn’t gay but who the first guy thinks is gay and therefore mortally fears the confrontation, guaranteed to be expedited in the first fifteen minutes of the screenplay in order to make for a good trailer and then filled out by Saturday Night Live actors trying to feed themselves on the off-season.
Anyway, that’s the good word from Latentsville, Anywhere. Not that it’s a bad place…