The openness of being gay at Gay Pride brought to mind the time when guys had to use “she” and the lesbians “he” when discussing their dates. Code words and phrases were used to identify fellow travelers and gay businesses. “The Ruby Slipper” gift shop was clearly a place where one could ask about the local scene. If someone triggered your gaydar, you confirmed their status by innocently commenting, “Oh, you’re from Detroit, maybe you know my friend Dorothy.” The directions to a popular tea room gave information about the local community and constabulary. Straight people listening were none the wiser.
I wonder about the young gay crowd. I seldom have a chance to talk with them, so I have no idea of the dance, drug, music and fashion slang/code words used to thwart parents and teachers. I am well aware, however, of the plethora of such words and abbreviations which infest the world of texting, Tweeting and those Internet sites advertising companionship and true love.
When a dear friend, an impeccably qualified degenerate, forces me to view such sites, I find: “GBL looking for GLB into JFP with or without PM” or “Prof massage, gentle SMBT by Giant BC Stud. tx betti-su.” I am utterly confused. I can’t even remember if LOL means “laughing out loud” or “lots of love.” The clear messages also befuddle me: “One night stands only, all ages/weights, anything goes, no sluts.” Err … isn’t something amiss here?
I need a young translator to give me lessons in the new slang, so I made up a posting: Need yng trans 4 les in nu slng. That should be clear enough.
Butching up: some can, some can’t
Even with the new openness about being gay, there are occasions and places where it is politic to tone down one’s gayness. Such was the case on a recent visit to my sister in Iowa. Before roaring off to the demolition derby, we attended a picnic with a fun bunch of tea-baggers and Pentecostals; some being important to my nephew in his new job. Not wishing to jeopardize his advancement, I did my best to butch up. I stomped around like they did in their cowboy boots, but my manly stride was somewhat hindered by my flip-flops. A few eyebrows went up when I confessed my perpetual bachelorhood, so I switched to my deepest voice to the point someone asked if I had laryngitis. I desperately tried to remember the latest scores of some sport, any sport. Failing that, I attempted to up-grade the conversation with mention of some worthy book, but my panic brought forth only Vanna White’s autobiography. Luckily it was a local favorite.
I did quite well until I, who never drink, tried to be one of the boys and took a drink (or two). I was soon in dangerous territory. When asking directions to “the head,” I almost said “tinkle room.” More close calls followed; someone brought up a Netflix release of the old movie The Elephant Man and midst description of the deformities of his face and jaw, I loudly wondered how he could masticate. Unfortunately it came out masturbate. After a few shocked seconds, thanks to the booze, they all began to laugh at my clever naughtiness. I was, thereafter, a great favorite with the ladies who reprimanded me with finger-wagging and giggles. I am not so sure I conquered the men (maybe it was my man-bag).
