I’ve been in in the US for the last few weeks. Scrappy rode in the overhead and I’ve dispatched him on to Toronto for some family time. I had taken my son to University for orientation (he wants to be a physics or as I’ve coined it a degree in “Daddy goes Bankrupt” ). It was good father son time and I chatted with Scrappy very openly during our trip together.
My hair got to be a mess, long, thick, wild – similar to how I like my boys (nevermind). So whilst Scrappy wasn’t available to cut it, I embarked to a local salon, picked out a homo Asian and commenced to getting sheared. I’m chattering away, as I do, and the guy is asking why I’m in town and I explain to take my son to University. He’s telling me about some gay cruise he’s going on and asking who normally cuts my hair and I explain I have a small brown tiger who normally handles this task.
He chatters along about this gay cruise and I’ve got this entire late night TV skit going about the onboard events and activities and drama. He is chuckling to himself. “You really know how the gays act don’t you.” I smile. He asks me about my family, wife, kids and how I’m living so far away with them. I nod and tell him brown tiger keeps me occupied.
He’s confused. Who is this brown tiger I keep talking about? Where do you keep this brown tiger? In my apartment, mostly in the same bed but it’s on a per night decision basis. “OMG are you gay?”, he gasps.
I whip out my driver’s license and show the checked little box next to the Organ Donor which says HOMO do not Chick-fil-A. Now he’s thoroughly confused and my hair cut is going to shit.
I paid, tipped nicely and was chuckling as I went down the street. But this was the first time anyone had asked me so directly about my gaydom and that I’d answer. Lucky guy!