Mommie Dirtiest.
It’s been three years, eight months, and 11 days since I announced my release from the prison of feigned heterosexuality. While I’ve long been proud and assertive of my identity, I haven’t exactly been loud about my love life as far as my parents are concerned. In fact, until recently I would do everything to keep the conversation away from anything related to my being gay.
I’d never specify my destination when going out in West Hollywood. I always referred to dates as “new friends” and rarely mentioned the sexuality of those involved in my burgeoning platonic relationships. When they first came to visit me in Los Angeles, my roommate was all but banned from opening her mouth around “Mr. and Mrs. Wienkers.” Knowing my life more intimately than anyone has before, her mere presence was a threat to the delicate balance of our family dialogue.
“You’re so Republican around your parents,” Kara proclaimed.
Not politically, of course. And not in the having sex with gay prostitutes way either. No, she meant it in the uptight sense of the slur.
You’d imagine that’s another reason she wasn’t invited out to dinner at the Olive Garden when my mom and middle sister came to visit this past January; but, no. It was just our trekking down to San Diego while she was stuck at work that kept her away. Because while Kara sure loves that bottomless salad and breadsticks combo, she could have run her mouth as readily as I’ve known her to stuff it.
Having attended orientation for the West Hollywood dodgeball league earlier that same week, the excitement of hurling balls at and alongside a hundred plus gay and tank-topped men was too exciting not to share. Even with my mother. And subsequently, in heading further down both of those avenues I’ve realized I hadn’t known what I was missing. Discussing my increasingly robust gay social life with my parents is almost as entertaining as living it.
“How did you know he was gay?” My mom asked of the boy responsible for causing the collision between he and my friend Jeb on Santa Monica Boulevard last month.
“We just knew.”
“That’s a little like stereotyping – isn’t it?” I could hear the smirk in her voice. The one that creeps in every time she’s about to follow up with some variation of “Aren’t you liberals…”
“No. He’s gay.”
“How is it that you can say that and I can’t?”
“Because you’re not gay. It’s called gaydar,” I introduced her to the term. “We can just tell. Although, Jeb’s not usually perceived as being gay, so our friend Kingsley said this guy was probably relieved to see me pop my head out of the car.”
“That’s funny that he was rear ended by another gay boy,” the smirk wiggled back in as she dropped an unprecedented double entendre.
“The real irony,” I replied as my guffaw eventually began to subside, “is that Jeb’s normally the one who would be doing the rear ending.”
“Heh…heh…”
It’s a start. Bawdier than most Midwestern Baby Boomers would even deign. Yet, while she might try workin’ blue, she still votes red.
Who knows, though. Today, anal sex humor. Tomorrow, Obama 2012.
Oh, momma Wienkers! This one made me smile…
heehee, too cute!!