Another Level of Activism...

I'm starting to think that subconciously, I am trying to get gay bashed. Or at least that there is some mysterious force of masochism that is making me do blatantly queer things in places I ought not.

A couple of days ago, Roomie and I went mattress shopping. It was late in the evening and the furniture store was nearing closing time, so there weren't alot of people meandering about us. We were moving from mattress to mattress, trying to find the one that was most comfortable to us. On one such mattress, I absent mindedly through my leg over the boy and moved in to find out what a smooch on the this one felt like. Perfectly timed, the first salesman we'd seen in 15 minutes just happened to sprint around the corner like a starving...well...salesman, only to turn immediately around and walk briskly in the direction from whence he came. I believe I heard him say something to the effect of "Shit. I'll give you two some privacy......" I thought he was amused. Roomie is convinced he was just going to the back room to get his gun. Anyway, the queer guy who ended up selling us the mattress set didn't seem to mind that two queens were there for a queen...

The next day, I was taking a break from cleaning ye ole house, and I got a hankering (yes I said it) for a meatball sandwich. There's a Subway about a mile from our new home that I'd yet to try, so I decided to mosey on down and git me some dinner. The reason for my use of such ignorant words as "hankering" and "mosey" is that we live in the country. A little tiny suburb on the absolute outskirts of the county. There are hicks everywhere. Honest-to-god, we have a corner general store and a dairy bar. There is a dumpy one bedroom house on the main drag with a sign out front that says "Museum". "Vinegar Jim's" is the classy restaurant in "town". The only espresso in town comes from the truckstop, seriously. Anyway, lots of rednecks, point made...

Now on this particular day, I neglected to notice that I left the house in a shirt that my dear friend Peter made for me. The shirt sports a picture that is very comicbookesque, and in giant exploding letters says "First Homosexual Experience Comics" across the chest. This combined with the half-off eye makeup from the previous night's disco-dancing escapades made me a very quick giveaway. All of these things went unnoticed until one minute before I pulled up to the Subway (also inside a truckstop, mind you). Upon surveying the clientele of said Subway and truckstop, I decided it would probably be beneficial to my health to wait in the car until some more surly types finished their business. When they didn't, I went in anyway, cuz dammit, this queen wanted her dinner!

Anyway, long, uncomfortable story short...I was glared at by several of the seedier locals and I SWEAR I was followed by a product of inbreeding in a beat-to-shit Chevy Truck with a rollbar and a bumper sticker that read "Ain't Skeered"... but I made it home alive...

Anyway, the point is, I think fate is trying to bash me. Either that or I don't have the best judgment in the world. But that can't be right, because it implies imperfection on my part, and we know that isn't the case.... ;-)