Am I Gay?

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Short answer: Yes. And it dawned on me only this week after I received an e-mail regarding Sunday’s post. A reader in Colorado, who identified himself only as “hatlvr” asks:

“So, are you gay? Your last article contained three references to homosexual acts. Furthermore, I have counted at least one such reference each week for the last two months in your archives. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being gay. But, if you write about it that much, people are going to wonder.”

This e-mail got me to thinking. Have I been writing about being gay that much? And have I repeatedly exposed myself by my promiscuous writing? The more I searched my soul, the more I came to grips with the truth. And I’d like to answer hatlvr’s question here because it may help others to understand the grave consequences of committing words to print.

Truth is, it doesn’t take repeated exposure to gayness to turn you gay. One slip-up and you’re as gay as Doogie Howser. It all began, I think, back in January when I wrote about having a gay dream. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but that morning first thing after breakfast, I went outside and installed window treatments in Sean’s treehouse. For those of you who aren’t gay, window treatments are called curtains. Sean took them down, of course. So, naturally, I forgot about it. But the deed was done. I had turned gay, just from writing about it.

I should have known better, too. As I look back, this was not the first time that the written word had transformed me. Last year, I wrote a novel about a priest. It was a pretty decent trashy novel. The priest was in a ménage à trois with a couple he had known for years. Everything turned out fine. He inherited a fortune and married his housekeeper. But I was changed for eternity. Yes. I became a priest. Now, I can sneak into church at 4:30 on Saturday afternoons and hear confessions any time I want. Best part is assigning penance.

The recent e-mail from hatlvr has helped me come to grips with my deepest, darkest secret. No. Not the gay thing. It’s so secret that I wouldn’t even tell myself until this week. Back in April, I wrote a column that mentioned women. In particular, it dealt mathematically with the feminine pubic region. Next morning, I woke up, and son-of-a-bitch if I didn’t have a vagina. I have been in denial until this week when hatlvr sent me the e-mail. I’m starting to accept it at last. And what a relief. So far, it’s been fun! Of course, it goes without saying that I’m the first priestess in the Roman Catholic Church. Come on in ladies; the water’s warm.

Of course, this all means that I must be very careful what I write about from now on. Of course, I can still write about women and priests and gay men since I’m already affected. But I’ve been resisting the urge lately to write about black people. Not that I object to having a bigger schlong. But I don’t think I would like getting pulled over just for deploying my turn signal too late. Or too early. Granted black guys are typically funnier than white guys, and it would probably help my writing if I were to turn black. But success is just not worth that kind of hassle.