Marlboro Man eat your heart out
"You are easily the most masculine homosexual I have ever seen."
That would be one of A.'s usual fumbling attempts at a compliment (he does not get much practice). He called me at work to harass me about sitting down to write another murder mystery birthday party (we have a two week deadline). I was blowing him off for the evening because I think working out is probably more crucial to my mental stability than chinese buffet. Plus, I believe tonight is the season finale of Angel.
Somehow, the topic of discussion turned to the married woman with whom A. continues to spend an inordinate amount of time. The woman in question explained to A. that one of the things that attracted her to her husband was "his femininity." This came as a bit of a surprise to both A. and I since the gent in question is an overweight, bearded, hirsute gamer who, despite claims of bisexuality and supposedly owning a sun dress that he finds 'comfortable,' conjures nothing even approaching a feminine vibe at first glance (or even at subsequent probing stare). I was equally surprised (and a little offended) when she revealed to A. that the only other person in our social circle she finds attractive is myself for similar reasons.
Apparently, I am "like a girl" because I am "fussy."
As I pointed out to A., I thought fussiness was a trait of babies, not females (a comparison which strangely would have offended me less).
Anyway, a brief (but somehow still tedious) discussion ensued in which A. insisted that I was the most masculine homosexual with whom he had ever come into contact. This is not saying much considering the only other fags with whom we intersect are the incredibly affected stereotypes that V. pals around with (possibly to make himself appear less flamboyant, if indeed this is possible while wearing a purple suit with an orange shirt and mismatched socks). A. then added that I am more masculine than most of his heterosexual friends, rattling off a list that seemed to include everyone except himself.
I suppose my rugged masculinity is why, despite the incredibly primped sideburns, coifed hair, and keen fashion sense, my coworkers insist on subjecting me to discussions of female anatomy. Yesterday, I was at lunch with S., hoping to discuss the state diagram he had made for teasing out the intricacies of our current UI. Unfortunately, during our meals S. maintains a vigilant stare over my shoulder, actively scanning every passing pair of buttocks that comes prepackaged with a nice set of hooters.
"What do you think of her, in the pink shirt?"
He gestured over my shoulder towards the trash cans. I glanced back and then responded, "Hmmm... Tough call. Her ass is down around her ankles. She looks a little manly."
"Manly?"
"Yeah, I don't know. The way she carries herself... and that hair. She shouldn't be wearing that pink shirt. If she was in like torn black jeans and a leather jacket, I think she could pull it off... both the look and that ass."
He mulled this over for a bit then volunteered, "if I break up with the chick I am dating, one of my friends wants to hook me up with that girl."
"Oh. So, does that mean I will be in trouble for having commented on how fat her ass is?"
"Yeah, I'm going to have to kick your ass," he smiled. "No. I was just curious. She has a really pretty face."
"Yeah, well, I didn't get a very good view from this angle. I mean, her hair was hanging down in front of it... and maybe her posture was just because she was throwing something away-"
"Don't fucking backpedal now-"
"No, I'm not! I just felt like she has sort of a more rocker vibe than the way she dresses. Like Pat Benatar or something."
"Yeah, I could see that."
"Regardless, I stand by my comment about her ass."
"How old are you now? Twenty-seven or something?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Yeah, well... you'll discover when you get around thirty-two or so that it becomes pretty difficult to find..."
"Girls who don't have asses down around their ankles?"
"Yeah..."
I neglected to mention that he could avoid the issue entirely through the miracle of faggotry.
That would be one of A.'s usual fumbling attempts at a compliment (he does not get much practice). He called me at work to harass me about sitting down to write another murder mystery birthday party (we have a two week deadline). I was blowing him off for the evening because I think working out is probably more crucial to my mental stability than chinese buffet. Plus, I believe tonight is the season finale of Angel.
Somehow, the topic of discussion turned to the married woman with whom A. continues to spend an inordinate amount of time. The woman in question explained to A. that one of the things that attracted her to her husband was "his femininity." This came as a bit of a surprise to both A. and I since the gent in question is an overweight, bearded, hirsute gamer who, despite claims of bisexuality and supposedly owning a sun dress that he finds 'comfortable,' conjures nothing even approaching a feminine vibe at first glance (or even at subsequent probing stare). I was equally surprised (and a little offended) when she revealed to A. that the only other person in our social circle she finds attractive is myself for similar reasons.
Apparently, I am "like a girl" because I am "fussy."
As I pointed out to A., I thought fussiness was a trait of babies, not females (a comparison which strangely would have offended me less).
Anyway, a brief (but somehow still tedious) discussion ensued in which A. insisted that I was the most masculine homosexual with whom he had ever come into contact. This is not saying much considering the only other fags with whom we intersect are the incredibly affected stereotypes that V. pals around with (possibly to make himself appear less flamboyant, if indeed this is possible while wearing a purple suit with an orange shirt and mismatched socks). A. then added that I am more masculine than most of his heterosexual friends, rattling off a list that seemed to include everyone except himself.
I suppose my rugged masculinity is why, despite the incredibly primped sideburns, coifed hair, and keen fashion sense, my coworkers insist on subjecting me to discussions of female anatomy. Yesterday, I was at lunch with S., hoping to discuss the state diagram he had made for teasing out the intricacies of our current UI. Unfortunately, during our meals S. maintains a vigilant stare over my shoulder, actively scanning every passing pair of buttocks that comes prepackaged with a nice set of hooters.
"What do you think of her, in the pink shirt?"
He gestured over my shoulder towards the trash cans. I glanced back and then responded, "Hmmm... Tough call. Her ass is down around her ankles. She looks a little manly."
"Manly?"
"Yeah, I don't know. The way she carries herself... and that hair. She shouldn't be wearing that pink shirt. If she was in like torn black jeans and a leather jacket, I think she could pull it off... both the look and that ass."
He mulled this over for a bit then volunteered, "if I break up with the chick I am dating, one of my friends wants to hook me up with that girl."
"Oh. So, does that mean I will be in trouble for having commented on how fat her ass is?"
"Yeah, I'm going to have to kick your ass," he smiled. "No. I was just curious. She has a really pretty face."
"Yeah, well, I didn't get a very good view from this angle. I mean, her hair was hanging down in front of it... and maybe her posture was just because she was throwing something away-"
"Don't fucking backpedal now-"
"No, I'm not! I just felt like she has sort of a more rocker vibe than the way she dresses. Like Pat Benatar or something."
"Yeah, I could see that."
"Regardless, I stand by my comment about her ass."
"How old are you now? Twenty-seven or something?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Yeah, well... you'll discover when you get around thirty-two or so that it becomes pretty difficult to find..."
"Girls who don't have asses down around their ankles?"
"Yeah..."
I neglected to mention that he could avoid the issue entirely through the miracle of faggotry.