Tea With A Gay.

I tead (that's the past tense of tea) with a gay yesterday.  I like a little gay love to get me through the week, and since My Future Ex Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh is all "I've got work to do" and "Some people have to work to make a living" on my ass, I got me a wee little tea date with my Other Gay, of olde days.

These gay love interactions are of vital importance to my pleasant weekly functioning.  Sometimes I get so down with The Straight Life, that I like to slip off into That Other World, which is, if we're honest, a whole lot more appealing than the world I inhabit.  I mean, I get to share a table with a man who does not cup his farts at the table.  Nor does he pick his teeth with his fork.  Nor is he teaming brown cargo trousers (with the actual cammo print from the 1990's), with work shoes and a red tracksuit top (uuuggghhhh.... What was I thinking?  Note to self: next lover will definitely have style.)

Plus the man with whom I shared the table, smelt nice, was clean shaven and was actually witty.  And it is so that I didn't expect to be picked up.  And not because the people around me thought that I was dating said lovely human - because, quite frankly, even those with the most ill-tuned Gaydars on the market would have heard a very loud BEEP BEEP BEEP in their heads upon sight of Other Gay.

And not because he's like all queeny.  He's not.  He was even wearing trousers on this outing and had removed his nail polish and washed his face of make-up.  It's because I think people - well, I really think people should - would (could!) leave a fag and his hag to tea in peace.  And the waitress!  Of all people in this world!  She should definitely have the social etiquette to know when to back off.

Waitress:  Can I get you another pot of tea, Gorgeous?

The Pant:  Back off bitch, he's mine.  Get your own fag to hag.

Waitress:  I'm sorry I didn't mean to offend you.  I wasn't trying to pick your fag up.  I think you're Gorgeous.

TP:  And I think I'm in love with you.

Waitress:  Really.  Because I believe in love at first sight, and fairies, and dancing around naked under the full moon while chanting to our ancestors.

The thing about Other Gay is he's not a hippy.  In like any way.  He's like all hygiene and technology.  And dirty sex.  And so, at this point, he raised his eyebrows so high that he now has stretch marks on his eyelids.  His disgust at Waitress's behaviour, AND INTERESTS!, had obviously repulsed him and so I had to pretend that I too was repulsed, and thus, hide my enjoyment of attention.

TP:  I'm sorry, Waitress.  But I think you've got the wrong impression of me.  I am wearing pumps.  And pretty earrings which aren't Nike ticks.

Waitress:  Oh, but I don't think so, Babe.

TP:  (Babe?  Really?  A fucking Pig in a fucking City?)  Oh, but I do think so, Deary.  This here man is my lover.  But like loooo-oo-oo-oo-oo-over.  Like grrrrrrr. (Attempt at tiger growl from depths of throat total fail - hopefully off putting).

(The sexual chemistry between Other Gay and I is about as exciting as brown corduroy.)

Waitress:  (twirling her mullet) Ooooh.  Stop.  You're turning me-

TP: Don't say it!

Other Gay:  Look, Precious.  You're barking up the wrong tree.  Our Pant over here is not a licker.  And although she finds your flirting incredibly flattering, the only way she would ever consider dating you is if you had a penis.  And if you had a penis, I would encourage Pant to actually go for you because you + penis = far more manly than any other actual boy (with penis) she has ever dated.  Now could you do us all a favour, and scuttle off and get us another pot of tea.  And two scones.  Thanks.  Nice back-pack by the way.

After a dejected waitress left the table, Other Gay and I were a little baffled as to where she was getting lesbian love vibes from.  We put Pant under the microscope and went through the checklist:

1)  Handbag: not backpack. (Must be straight.)
2)  Earrings:  one per earlobe.  (Feminine.)
3)  Shirt: feminine lace.  (Definitely straight)
4)  Pants:  fitting, no boxer shorts creeping out since pants are on the hip level, not below, where they should be.  (Definitely a breeder).
5)  Hair:  Long.  Dyed.  One colour only.  Gloriously straight.  (Definitely straight.)

Other Gay:  Maybe she's one of those old school lesbos, you know, the ones that think that gays only hang out with gays.

The Pant:  But do you hang out with any lesbos?

OG:  I would, if you were one.  And you dressed like that.  And you didn't use lesbianisms, like "a glass?  What for?  It's in a glass" and "Fire engine".

TP:  Oh, that's sweet.  I'd hang out with you if you were straight.  But then I'd probably bed you.  And that would make things awkward.  But like, really, Other Gay.  What is it?  Why am I screaming "Vegetarian" to this woman-thing?

OG:  It just escapes me... I can't quite put my finger on-

TP:  What?

Other Gay was frozen with his finger in the air and his eyes downcast.

TP:  Okay.  Look I get it.  My tits are small but there, seriously, is nothing I can do about that.

OG: (head shake)

TP:  Is it the fact that I'm not wearing a belt because my shirt is long enough to cover my trouser?

OG: (head shake)

TP:  What?  Because my nails aren't done?

OG:  (head shake)

TP:  Ummmm....  she could not have possibly seen that I haven't waxed my legs this month, could she?

OG:  (head shake)

TP:  Just effing tell me.  I've got to stop putting out these vibes into the universe lest I get to the single age that requires a colony of cats and a genuine interest in crochet.

And just at that moment, a man from another table walked over.

Man:  Can I borrow your lighter, please?

I looked down and saw this, resting atop my cigarettes:

OG:  That'll do it, Pant. 

Ah, the skanky lady lighter: a definite draw card for the dykes.