Being A Fag Hag.

It's a short blog. But it's important. The Pant realised, today, why she loves being a fag hag.

Look, I'm eternally grateful for my Gaydar - it's helped prevent me from being involved in very many possibly embarrassing situations. Because, let's face it, gay boys are hot: they have fashion sense, good hair, decent shoes and they always smell so flipping fabulous. These are qualities that attract women to men, no? Well, unless you're into neanderthal. Which I'm not. So my Gaydar has stopped me from lunging on many occasions. Except one. But he was so rugged. The venue should have given me a clue. Note to self: do not go on the hunt in gay clubs.

And it's not only because of their honesty that I'm a happy fag hag. They are honest. Sometimes too much. I will never forget shopping with CT Hairdresser (aw! he's so lovely). I walked out of the dressing room in a t-back vest and jeans. And he shrieked.

CTH: Oh no! Oh no no no no no no no, my dolla! No!

(I thought I looked hip. Happening. Bitching.)

TP: Why? What's wrong?

CTH: Well, firstly, my precious, those jeans. They're wrong on so many levels. But the biggest problem is that they make you look like you have four arses, forget two.

TP: Okay. But what about the top? Doesn't it make my tits look massive?

CTH: Ah shame, my sausage. Listen carefully to me: your tits will never look massive. Ever. Okay? And nothing says "I love carpet" quite like a t-back. Okay?

And it's not only because of their loyalty. I mean, My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Absolutely No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh is the one person upon whom I can count. Regardless of where in the world he may be. Regardless of how dire my situation is. He chose me, you see, and so he sticks by me, regardless. Oh, and we rock Games Evening so much better than Will & Grace. So much.

I love being a fag hag because I love their language. And I feel part of the bigger world when I get to converse using it.

Today, on board my homeward flight (on time! From Lanseria! Miracles happen everyday) my steward was a delightful man. His theatrical demonstration of how to use the stylish life-jacket (especially the blow up part) had me rolling in the aisles in hysterics.

But my finest moment was when he offered me a drink.

Air Steward: Can I get you gorgeous ladies a drink?

TP: Please. A kiddies' activity pack. And a glass of dry white for me, please.

AS: Oo! A Sunday arvie dora for you?

And that was the moment. Dora. He said it. And he knew I knew what it meant. I may have boobs (well, kind of), but I'm part of this Men's Only Club.

And it rocks.