Dinner tonight, me and Pepper, holding hands. Gay restaurant. Gay part of town. Gay waiter/owner. The conversation goes like this:
Waiter: Une table pour deux?
Me: Oui. Oh, and he’s from San Francisco, he doesn’t speak French.
Waiter: San Francisco, huh? (Gives Pepper the up-and-down.) I guess it’s so gay there that the look is even rubbing off on the heterosexuals.
Me: Sure. But, uh, neither of us are heterosexuals.
Waiter: Ahhh! Neither of you, eh? So you’re just, uh, good friends.
Me: (deadpan stare) No, we fuck.
Waiter: Oh, you do! Um… (Runs away.)
Yo-ho-ho, another fun night in the world of the queer gender-benders. It’s not that I feel a particularly strong inclination to yell “biiiisexuaaaaalll!!” from the rooftops, but ya know, if you’re going to grossly mis-presume and then give me the explicit opportunity to set the record, um, straight…
Funny how more people read us correctly at a poly friend’s baby shower (the child being the fruit of one or both of her male partners, I didn’t ask) we attended this afternoon in suburbia than at an underground restaurant in Gayville.
Mind you, I’m not griping. Understanding is nice, but if that’s unavailable, I’ll take confusion over hostility any day.