I'm sitting in the computer lab at Stevens-Henager, supposedly doing research for our project... but there are two boys in here and they are highly distracting, and I felt like writing about them suddenly.
They are obviously law students... well, no, that couldn't be right. Not here. Perhaps they're preparing a debate for a class. That sounds far more likely. One of them is rather short and stocky, standard red polo shirt and shaved head. Not unhandsome, but no killer looks either. The other is slim and languid, rather attractive until he opens his mouth. He wears a puka shell necklace and a raglan jersey-style shirt, and has nice blue eyes, though his hair is a strange starchy yellow colour. Bleached. His legs are crossed... really crossed, not just pretending the way most guys pretend. They are crossed, the upper leg swinging freely at the knee as the lower leg supports it.
And then he talks, and effeminate mannerisms leak from every pore. I was aghast at first-- this must be a joke, they're just seeing how I react-- and then I found myself squidging down in my plump computer chair, trying to shrink out of sight and out of mind. I type as silently as possible, trying to sort out my feelings about this situation. Part of me wants to laugh hysterically-- especially when Margaret Cho's voice leaps into my head, murmuring "Alan and Jeremy were drag queens, and they kicked ass. It was like Crouching Drag Queen, Hidden Faggot"-- and the other part of me feels awful. Not because I want to laugh, but because I'm probably not the only one. Because words like Margaret Cho's come to mind, though not cruelly meant... and they make me feel guilty.
I'm only worried for him. Worried he isn't gay, and that no girl will find him alluring. Worried he is gay, and that no man will find him alluring. He seems to have struck that strange and perfect balance... too girlish for everyone, even though he owns the right chromisomes and the right birth certificate to be a man.
He leans forward and puts his chin in his hand, lisping voice issuing questions to his polo-shirted companion, who doesn't seem at all uncomfortable in his presence... despite the straight-vibes that radiate strongly from him. Suddenly, I feel terrible.
Effeminate men strike fear into my heart. Why? They're no threat to me... but somehow, I always end up responsible for the well-being of their romantic feelings. If they are not gay, they will surely develop feelings for Chelsey, and this is a mostly-proven fact. (This experiment needs to be performed in a controlled environment, but then that would just be cruel, so mostly-proven it will stay.)
Those kinds of boys are fragile to me, unable to take the defeat of a quiet and friendly "no" without throwing their hands to their foreheads and being sure the world will end on the cusp of morning. I cannot stand these kinds of theatrics. If they had known me for our whole lives, loved me for all that time, and had finally confessed to it, hearing my no, and had reacted in such a way, I would not blame them; but it is never like that. There are always dramatics, disappointment, as if I were the guardian of their feelings instead of just the root of them.
Two weeks, two days, sometimes even two hours, and a profession of profound feeling from a lazy tongue assaults my ears. I hate it, I loathe it, I can't stand it. I feel put upon, pressured, rushed. As if I'm a small child getting into a car with a stranger. As if I've just found warm lettuce on my hamburger when I ordered it without. As if I've tripped and fallen in a parking lot, scraping up the heels of my hands and tearing my jeans. All this swarms into some semblance of hatred, and I hate the hatred, which only makes it stronger.
Effeminate men make me want to scream. I don't hate them. I just hate the fact that I am flypaper for them. I think sometimes I feel that I'll simply be a beard again, that they really are just making all this up to have a girl to stand between them and their honest identity of being homosexual. Other times, I know they think they are being sincere... but it will just go away. It has to go away. If I close my eyes, they can't see me.
I won't date effeminate men. You date the kind of people you marry, and I will marry someone who has broad shoulders and sparkling eyes and a strong, firm voice.
I cannot and simply will not do it. No matter how terrible that makes me sound, no matter how well they treat me as opposed to a "real" man... I just can't bring myself to it. They can be my friends, my most sincere and kind companions, the boy that people ask about when they request of my mother at church: "Is Chelsey seeing that nice young man?"
But please, don't ask me to feel for you in a way that I know I never, ever can. It isn't a conscious decision. It's just something I involuntarily shrink from, that I can't even really put into adequate words.
As I leave the computer lab, the boy stands up, banging his knee on the desk. A squashed and rounded "son of a bitch" emits from his pursed mouth, and I just want to shake my head. I do, out in the hallway, thinking that even my girlish tongue could have made that phrase resound like it should... instead of letting it linger there, half-said, disappointed even in itself.
They are obviously law students... well, no, that couldn't be right. Not here. Perhaps they're preparing a debate for a class. That sounds far more likely. One of them is rather short and stocky, standard red polo shirt and shaved head. Not unhandsome, but no killer looks either. The other is slim and languid, rather attractive until he opens his mouth. He wears a puka shell necklace and a raglan jersey-style shirt, and has nice blue eyes, though his hair is a strange starchy yellow colour. Bleached. His legs are crossed... really crossed, not just pretending the way most guys pretend. They are crossed, the upper leg swinging freely at the knee as the lower leg supports it.
And then he talks, and effeminate mannerisms leak from every pore. I was aghast at first-- this must be a joke, they're just seeing how I react-- and then I found myself squidging down in my plump computer chair, trying to shrink out of sight and out of mind. I type as silently as possible, trying to sort out my feelings about this situation. Part of me wants to laugh hysterically-- especially when Margaret Cho's voice leaps into my head, murmuring "Alan and Jeremy were drag queens, and they kicked ass. It was like Crouching Drag Queen, Hidden Faggot"-- and the other part of me feels awful. Not because I want to laugh, but because I'm probably not the only one. Because words like Margaret Cho's come to mind, though not cruelly meant... and they make me feel guilty.
I'm only worried for him. Worried he isn't gay, and that no girl will find him alluring. Worried he is gay, and that no man will find him alluring. He seems to have struck that strange and perfect balance... too girlish for everyone, even though he owns the right chromisomes and the right birth certificate to be a man.
He leans forward and puts his chin in his hand, lisping voice issuing questions to his polo-shirted companion, who doesn't seem at all uncomfortable in his presence... despite the straight-vibes that radiate strongly from him. Suddenly, I feel terrible.
Effeminate men strike fear into my heart. Why? They're no threat to me... but somehow, I always end up responsible for the well-being of their romantic feelings. If they are not gay, they will surely develop feelings for Chelsey, and this is a mostly-proven fact. (This experiment needs to be performed in a controlled environment, but then that would just be cruel, so mostly-proven it will stay.)
Those kinds of boys are fragile to me, unable to take the defeat of a quiet and friendly "no" without throwing their hands to their foreheads and being sure the world will end on the cusp of morning. I cannot stand these kinds of theatrics. If they had known me for our whole lives, loved me for all that time, and had finally confessed to it, hearing my no, and had reacted in such a way, I would not blame them; but it is never like that. There are always dramatics, disappointment, as if I were the guardian of their feelings instead of just the root of them.
Two weeks, two days, sometimes even two hours, and a profession of profound feeling from a lazy tongue assaults my ears. I hate it, I loathe it, I can't stand it. I feel put upon, pressured, rushed. As if I'm a small child getting into a car with a stranger. As if I've just found warm lettuce on my hamburger when I ordered it without. As if I've tripped and fallen in a parking lot, scraping up the heels of my hands and tearing my jeans. All this swarms into some semblance of hatred, and I hate the hatred, which only makes it stronger.
Effeminate men make me want to scream. I don't hate them. I just hate the fact that I am flypaper for them. I think sometimes I feel that I'll simply be a beard again, that they really are just making all this up to have a girl to stand between them and their honest identity of being homosexual. Other times, I know they think they are being sincere... but it will just go away. It has to go away. If I close my eyes, they can't see me.
I won't date effeminate men. You date the kind of people you marry, and I will marry someone who has broad shoulders and sparkling eyes and a strong, firm voice.
I cannot and simply will not do it. No matter how terrible that makes me sound, no matter how well they treat me as opposed to a "real" man... I just can't bring myself to it. They can be my friends, my most sincere and kind companions, the boy that people ask about when they request of my mother at church: "Is Chelsey seeing that nice young man?"
But please, don't ask me to feel for you in a way that I know I never, ever can. It isn't a conscious decision. It's just something I involuntarily shrink from, that I can't even really put into adequate words.
As I leave the computer lab, the boy stands up, banging his knee on the desk. A squashed and rounded "son of a bitch" emits from his pursed mouth, and I just want to shake my head. I do, out in the hallway, thinking that even my girlish tongue could have made that phrase resound like it should... instead of letting it linger there, half-said, disappointed even in itself.
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