I made the mistake of watching a video of myself today, and decided that I’m entering my Eydie Gorme years.
Note to Confused Lesbians: As any gay boy can tell you, the Eydie Gorme years occur somewhere between Elizabeth Taylor’s overripe Cleopatra period and Shelley Winters’s zaftig Poseidon Adventure era.
I immediately popped into the office of my gay boyfriend, Robert, and suggested it might be time to shop for a caftan. He gave me an appraising up-and-down glance, and suggested that we take a tango class together as a way to reduce.
“But I can’t dance,” I whined.
“That’s why we’re going to take a class,” he said.
Then, he wisely advised that we go out for drinks before our first class.
OK, so now, we’re at tango class, and we’re drunk. I am barely conscious, and listing heavily on the Delores Del Rio cha-cha heels Robert insisted I wear to class. I can’t manage heels when cold sober, so adding a few glasses of cabernet and Latin dancing to the mix is a certain recipe for disaster.
Robert is holding me, so that I don’t fall over, and everyone in the class mistakes this for affection. An older couple tease us about getting a room. I think it’s a grand idea, because it would give me a private place to vomit. Robert plays along with the old couple, fueling the fire by running his hands up and down my helplessly limp body. He comes very close to fondling my breasts, which results in a sharp elbow to his belly region. If I was sober, I would have aimed a bit lower.
Every time Robert gets a couple gins in him, he decides he’s bisexual, and heads straight for my breasts. I’m a pretty good sport, but I’ve gotten well past the point in my life where I take any pleasure in peeling a drunken guy’s hands off my breasts.
I take a lot of pride in my breasts. Nicely sized and firm, they never have given me a lick of trouble. Plus, as I age, they distract people from gazing down at my expanding hips. I’m quite fond of them.
I like to do what I can to pay them back for their many kindnesses. So, I don’t let anyone touch them who will treat them roughly. Gay men certainly have their charms, but they don’t know the first thing about breasts. I can’t count the number of gay men who have grabbed them, pretending they were ham radio dials; turning them this way and that; and saying, “Come in, Tokyo.”
The teacher walks into class. Actually, she glides into class. She’s as thin as a cigarette, which she apparently lives on. She is wearing a turban and a lot of eye makeup.
Robert and I are absolutely delighted by this turn of events. We forget all about our breast squabble. She begins madly commanding us about the room in something that sounds suspiciously like Esperanto. We stumble across the floor in mass confusion.
A 70-year-old lady, who earlier confessed she was taking the class to meet guys, while hungrily eyeing my date, trips and falls to the floor, revealing that she’s wearing an ill-fitting thong. I’m convinced that she remains spread-eagled a moment longer than necessary to give Robert an eyeful.
Robert stares into her abyss, horrified but transfixed, as if hypnotized by an advancing python.
“Still think you’re bisexual,” I whisper, as the tango rhythms swell.
Hey, I wrote a book. You can buy Dateland on Amazon.com.