Paranoid pansy

Paranoid pansy

How much is too much? Where on earth do you draw the line between being gay and being too gay, so that you would refuse to acknowledge a person.

The other day, someone I met told me about this other young man he came across: beautiful, smart, trendy, and otherwise very attractive indeed - but with a tone of voice that screamed out loud his tendency to bare his bottom for hunky men with huge pricks. And that's what drove this person I met to run for cover. Because, (as the logic goes), though everybody may know that I'm camp, I don't want everybody to know that I sashay my hips when I walk, and say lines that resemble Queenie Dodhy's, and spread my legs out wide like Maureen Wadia's. Being a bitch is otherwise quite fine.

Sigh.

This morning, I was on a family excursion, so to speak, in Juhu, when this not-so pretty, not-so young thing traipses by. Red, cream and brown striped shirt that clung tightly to his body, striped trousers, and a jute bag that was held precariously locked by an elbow. As soon as I spied him, I knew he was a queen. An obvious one.

Not a Muscle Mary, like the ones in the gym who go huffing and puffing on iron barbells and protein shakes but long to get fucked nice and hard with their asses up in the air (did I mention earlier this blog is rated PG?) - but the more extroverted queen. The sort of queen that is every narrow-minded heterosexual's picture of a homosexual: with all the lisps in speech, and hand gestures, and awful taste in clothes and hair, and the trademark promiscuity second only to fictional rabbits...! He was one of those... and I balked.

Damn. So much for being an enlightened gay person, huh? So much for thinking, that every one has a right to self expression. Shit: when it comes to the crunch, I fear I may be like one of those narrow-minded hetero assholes who snigger at the passing pansy.

And that is scary.