esrosedotblog

HOMO ALONE

Well, not alone. Booker and I are keeping bachelor hall together.

John is at one of the myriad film festivals they have in town. We live too fucking close to Hollywood for my taste.

This one is the "Diverse" fest meaning gay and lesbian films.

I like the "diverse" tag. I am so tired of all those initials GLBT. Maybe I will adopt that. Diverse. It is like "queer" which also serves within the community but is more tasteful.

I won't use the letters.

I remember when it was all gay and that was it. Lesbian, bisexual (we mostly think that they are in transition--they are certainly very gay when they are with us) and transgender. All gay.

The latter, transgender, is still a little confusing actually. Or, let's say I am confused about it. I am not sure how gender reassignment is a sexual practice or orientation. Really. It is gender. It is OK. They can be in my tent if they want to but I don't think it is the same thing.

Remember that transvestites are not in our tent. Some are but that is because they are gay men in a dress. Or dykes on bikes or in tuxes or whatever. Most drag queens and kings are mostly straight, those gals and guys. Yes. There are male and female cross dressers. And they have their own organizations. They have families and spouses and lead otherwise "normal lives". The dress doesn't come into play sexually. Well not interactively. I hear they get off on it but not that way. Or something. I guess I don't get that either.

Anyway, I blame the lesbians. They started the letter thing. In the beginning, near Stonewall, we were all gay and then the girls wanted their own designation. And there it went. Letters.

I digress.

Booker and I are at home in our confusion about the gay movement and enjoying not making supper every night for three nights. There are no other advantages. And, actually, no cooking is not an advantage for Booker who likes to cook along with Earl.

He comes into the kitchen as soon as I start to prep and sits or lies in the best spots which means out of the way of swinging cabinet doors and within easy reach of a taste of whatever I am prepping.

We thought Franklin was a moocher but this guy has been carefully trained in the art. We have brought him down a notch from his obvious sharing food at the dining room table. That is verboten in our house. But the kitchen. Well, what is the harm of a little cucumber or green bean or broccoli. No meat. No leftovers really.

I work it all into his calorie count. He is not getting a big ass again. He is a great companion. It is not all begging. We talk, we share our day's activities. When the handouts stop he lies down and either watches or rests until the next course.

With John out, all the handouts stop. I have frozen entrees and salad. No nibbles.

I pretend for him. A few pieces of broccoli here. A tomato there. It is OK with him, of course, but we both know it is not the same. Sort of drag-nibbles. Made up as a flourish or substitute for the real thing.

We have a good time anyway. We can also start dinner a bit earlier and take an earlier walk. Get home for some heavy reading.

It is all good.

Labels: gay history, gay life