Have you noticed the more and more gay-straight mixing in Hillcrest/North Park? It is becoming increasingly pronounced in the restaurants especially with the younger crowd. Friendly service greets all customers and they in turn pay no attention to the sexual make-up of the couple or group at the next table.
More and more of us are accepting the straights among us; no one makes cracks or suggests they find another place to hold hands or even kiss – although good manners would indicate decorum should be observed for the sake of our children we might have with us.
This invasion of straight people has a good reason: the wonderful variety of ethnic and national dishes to be found here – Italian, Mexican, Ethiopian, Greek, Asian/you-name-it and many more with recent additions from India, Israel and Pita (must look that up). And let’s not forget the vegan and vegetarian places where I am invariably surprised when I venture into their exotic, healthy choices. (What the heck is polenta? Doesn’t that have something to do with babies?)
I can’t help wondering what non-gays think of the snatches of conversation they must overhear. It happened to me just the other night in a popular gal-friendly place. The women behind us were screaming with laughter about a friend with a camel foot (hoof?) but neither I nor the guys at my table could figure it out. Probably lesbian slang, but who cares; a good time was had by all.
Get out and mingle with some straights; they can be quite nice.
A banquet memory
A recent invitation to a class reunion reminded me of the graduation banquet where I made a memorable speech. To honor a classmate (killed by a moose he was poaching off season) I was to read a poem by Miss Bream, the music teacher. It was so sweet and cloying we could have all ended up with saccharin poisoning.
Following me was to be our football hero (He made a few touchdowns – big fxxxing deal!) thanking the teachers for their wonderful help.
Unfortunately, Mr. Butch had an attack of stage fright, threw up over his speech and refused to go on. Everyone was stunned and speechless – except you-know-who!
Forget the stupid poem. I wiped off his speech, swept on stage and proceeded to ad lib what I couldn’t decipher through the guck.
Naturally I added a few things. For example, the gym teacher, a fascist lout who continually chose me last – even for dodge ball, I thanked for the contribution his face and other body parts had made to the many scatological wall drawings in the men’s locker room. I also thanked several jocks by name for promising to skip the bunny hop at the dance party after the banquet and lead us in the sissy strut.
I covered a lot of territory. The students, well-oiled from secret pre-banquet parties, didn’t notice anything. The teachers did and I was sternly frowned at by some and secretly beamed at by others. The gym teacher, too dumb to understand what I had said, continued choosing me last and I continued decorating the locker room.
